


The Music of the Night

by Brambleshadow_of_WindClan



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Book/Stage Musical Fusion, Blood and Torture, Character Death, Dark Doctor (Doctor Who), F/M, Gen, Multi, NaNoWriMo 2014, basically this is that The Phantom of the Opera AU that nobody wanted but I'm writing anyway, well maybe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3760351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brambleshadow_of_WindClan/pseuds/Brambleshadow_of_WindClan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mysterious, elusive Phantom haunts the Paris Opera House and hunts the beautiful singer Rose Tyler, with whom he has a dark obsession. Jack, Rose’s childhood friend (and maybe more than that) is having none of it. Neither is the mysterious woman known only as River Song.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This was my entry for the 2014 NaNoWriMo. In case you hadn't figured it out, this is a _The Phantom of the Opera_ Alternate Universe fic. It's based on both the original 1910 novel by Gaston Leroux and the 1986 Broadway musical/2004 film by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Inspiration from various adaptations may have crept in at some point.

_Paris, 1914_

The streets outside the now-dilapidated opera house bustled with people coming and going, were filled with the throaty roars of the latest car model and the occasional whinny and hoofbeats of horse-drawn stagecoaches. Large banners hung over the front entrance proclaimed proudly that the Paris Opera House was hosting an auction; despite this, only a few people actually trickled inside. Most passerby spared the once-beautiful building a mere, mildly curious glance before moving on.

            They had heard the story of the opera house, of course—everyone had—but most scoffed it off as a mere gimmick to attract attention back when the house had been in its heyday thirty years ago, or as local legend. Only a few insisted that the Phantom had been real, but those witnesses had either passed on to the other side or their minds were so addled with age that no one took them seriously. After all, skeptics said, there had never been any definite evidence of the Opera Ghost’s existence, nor any truth to the story that he had kidnapped the beautiful singer Rose Tyler, orchestrated the disappearance of Captain Jack Harkness, or murdered the captain’s older brother. Yes, they agreed, the Opera House was dead, a mere ghost like its infamous legend. Life moved on. And so, most of those out on the streets of Paris simply went on their way.

            It was into this atmosphere that a black car pulled up to the entrance of the Opera House, its back doors bearing the crest of the Harkness family. A chauffeur stepped out, went around to the far passenger side, opened the door, and helped the elderly captain—now a vicomte—step out onto the pavement. As soon as Jack Harkness was standing, he gently shook off the other man’s help with a slight twitch of his arm. He may have been in his fifties by now, but he could still walk. Age had turned his brown-black hair a peppery gray, but his violet-blue eyes were as sharp and clear-sighted as ever—even _if_ he was starting to become a little near-sighted.

            Jack turned his head, started to dismiss his driver, then thought better of it and motioned with his hand for the other, younger man to follow. They walked up the front steps, entered the opera house, and joined the small crowd that was there for the auction.

            Inside, every surface of the once-beautiful house was coated in layers of dust. Cobwebs hung from every available corner, and the lighting was dim when compared to the natural sunlight outside. Jack felt a brief twinge of sadness and nostalgia, shoved it aside to focus on the auction.

            “. . . Sold,” the auctioneer—standing on  large wooden platform in the center of the room—was saying, slamming down a gavel to emphasize his point. “Your number, sir?” He paused, then continued, “Thank you.” The sold item was taken offstage; another item took its place. “Lot six-six-three, ladies and gentlemen: a poster from this house’s production of _Hannibal_ by Chalumau.”

            “Showing here,” said the porter.

            With those words, the auctioneer started the bidding: “Do I have ten francs?” No response. “Five, then. Five I am bid. Six. Seven. Against you, sir, seven. Eight? Eight once. Selling twice.” There were no further bids. Down went the gavel. “Sold to Monsieur Deferre. Thank you very much, sir.” Again, there was a pause as items moved off and on the platform. “Lot six-six-four: a wooden pistol and three human skulls . . .  From the 1867 production of _Robert le Diable_ by Meyerbeer. Ten francs for this. Ten, thank you. Ten still. Fifteen, thank you, is I’m bid. Going at fifteen. Your number, sir? . . .

            “Lot six-six-five, ladies and gentlemen: a papier mache musical box in the shape of a barrel organ. Attached: the figure of a monkey in Gallifreyan robes playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, is still in working order.”

            “Showing here,” repeated the porter. He activated the music box; strains of a half-familiar, half-forgotten song made tinny by the box reached Jack’s ears. Memories of a masquerade ball started to swirl in his mind. No, more than mere memories . . .

            The captain—no, vicomte; why could he never remember he was now a vicomte?—looked to the side, not really expecting to see anyone he knew, yet he wasn’t surprised to see Donna Noble there. Her face was more lined now, her red hair now slightly streaked with gray, yet he would recognize her anywhere. She must be in her forties by now, he realized.

            “May I commence at fifteen francs?” The auctioneer’s voice pulled Captain Jack back into the moment. “Fifteen, thank you. Yes, twenty from you, sir. Thank you very much.” Donna raised her hand. “Madame Noble, twenty-five. Thank you, Madame. Twenty-five I’m bid. Do I hear thirty?” Jack raised his hand. “Thirty. And thirty-five?” Donna shook her head. “Selling at thirty francs, then. Thirty once, thirty twice.” _Bang!_ “Sold for thirty francs to the Vicomte Harkness.” ( _It’s “Captain,”_ Jack thought.) “Thank you, sir.”

            It was not long before the monkey musical box was in Jack’s possession.

            _A collector’s piece indeed,_ he thought wryly to himself, tracing its edges with a finger. _Every detail exactly as she said. . . . She often spoke of you, my friend. . . . Your velvet lining and your figurine of lead . . . Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?_

            The auctioneer’s voice continued, “Lot six-six-six, then: a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera, a mystery never fully explained.”

            A dry smile twitched on Jack’s lips. Oh, yes, he remembered the “strange affair”, as the auctioneer had put it. He had lived it, after all.

            “We are told, ladies and gentlemen,” the auctioneer went on, “that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it and wired parts of it for the new electric lights. Perhaps we can frighten away the ghosts of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen!”

            At the order, the cover was whisked off the restored chandelier and it lit up. As the chandelier was raised up, Jack found himself slipping back into memories.

            Rose’s kidnapping, his own disappearance, the death of his brother and many others . . . All of it had been the work of the Phantom. Children and young men and women today just thought the Phantom was a myth, a legend, but Jack, Donna, and Sarah Jane Smith—as well as the mysterious woman known to all of Paris only as River Song—knew better. No, the Phantom was not a myth!

            Not that there were very many witnesses left. Of those who were, most were deemed mad when they told the version of Jack’s case that involved the Opera Ghost. It seemed the general public preferred the story that had Jack killing his older brother John in a fit of jealous rage over Rose—which was completely daft, of course.

            Donna caught his eye again, and as light from the chandelier chased away the shadows lurking in dusty corners Jack was thrown back in time to 1896, when the Paris Opera House was in its prime and haunted by a murderous, obsessive, elusive figure . . .


	2. Chapter 1

It was the evening on which Messers. Mott and Yana, the managers of the Opera House, were hosting a last gala performance to mark their retirement. All was silent in the dressing room of lead ballerina Gwen Cooper when suddenly a group of about half-a-dozen girls from the ballet, who had come up from the stage after “dancing” _Polyeucte,_ invaded Gwen’s personal space. The small crowd rushed in amid great confusion, some giving forced and unnatural peals of laughter, others releasing cries of sheer terror. Gwen, who had just wanted a few minutes of peace and quiet to rehearse her speech for the resigning managers, glared angrily at the tumultuous crowd. It was little Amelia Pond, known as Amy to her friends—a Scottish girl with flaming red hair, pale freckled skin, and emerald-green eyes—who gave the dark-haired Wales native the explanation in a shaky yet defiant voice:

            “It’s the Phantom!” And she locked the door behind her.

            Gwen’s dressing room was relatively normal as dressing rooms went, fitted up with what some would call official, commonplace elegance. There was a sofa, a dressing table with a mirror, and a couple cupboards. On the walls hung a few photographs of her mother and family, including her fiancé Rhys; portraits of the Welsh countryside (though none of the girls could see why she wanted to hang those there: the landscape was rather dull compared to that of France); and posters from the Torchwood Opera House back in Cardiff. To the girls—the brats was how Gwen thought of them—of the _corps de ballet_ , however, the room was a palace. After all, they were lodged in common dressing rooms where they spent their time singing, bickering, smacking the costumers and hairdressers, and buying one another glasses of wine, beer, crѐme de cassis, sometimes even rum, until the call-boy’s bell rang.

            Cooper, who was very superstitious, shuddered when she heard Amelia Pond speak of the Phantom. Still, she called the Scottish girl a silly fool and, of course, asked immediately for details. She’d seen a lot of strange happenings around Cardiff, after all, so naturally she would be one of the first to believe in the Opera Ghost.

            “Have you seen him?” she asked Amy.

            “As plain as I’m looking at you now!” the girl, no more than fifteen years old, replied, her accent becoming stronger with each word. She crossed her arms and glared defiantly, as if daring Gwen to contradict her.

            Donna Noble—red hair, blue eyes, English, and the adopted daughter of Sarah Jane Smith—added with her usual bluntness, “If that’s the Phantom, he’s very ugly. No, worse than that.”

            “Oh, yes!” the ballet girls chorused.

            The room soon filled with the chatter of girls’ voices. The Phantom had appeared to them in the shape of a gentleman in dark clothes, who had suddenly stood in the passage before them, though none of them knew how. It seemed as if he had come straight through the wall.

            “Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed Grace Holloway—American, pale skin, reddish-blonde hair, pale green-gray eyes—one of the few girls who had more or less kept her head. “You lot see the Phantom everywhere!”

            Well, it _was_ true. For the past several months there had been nothing discussed at the Opera House but this well-dressed ghost who stalked about the building from top to bottom, like a shadow, who spoke to nobody and no one spoke to, who vanished as soon as he was seen—even if it was just a glimpse—and no one knew how or where he managed to do it. Like a real ghost, he made no sound as he walked. It wasn’t long until people began talking and laughing and making fun of this specter dressed as a man of strange fashion or an undertaker. Among the _corps de ballet_ girls, the Phantom legend swelled to enormous proportions with all of the girls claiming to have met him at one point or another, yet those who laughed the loudest were those that were the most less at ease. Whenever the Phantom did not explicitly show himself, he betrayed his presence or passing in other ways by accident, comic, or serious, and the general superstition held him responsible. If anyone had fallen, suffered a practical joke at the hands of one of the other girls, or lost a powder puff, at once it was the fault of the Opera Ghost—known better as the Phantom of the Opera.

            After all, who could say for certain that they had seen him? There were so many men in dress-clothes at the Opera who were _not_ ghosts. This dress-suit, however, had its own peculiarity. It covered a skeleton, or so the ballet girls said.

            Not to mention the fact it had a death’s-head—a skull for a head.

            Was all this true? Well, the idea of the skeleton came from the description of the Phantom given by Peter Zwölf, the chief stagehand, who had actually seen the ghost. He had run up against him on the little staircase, by the footlights, which led to the cellars. Peter had seen him for just a second, as the Phantom had vanished by then, and he repeated his story to anyone who cared to listen to him.

            “He is extraordinarily thin and his long dress coat hangs on a skeleton frame,” he would say, his Scottish accent becoming thicker with his excitement. “His eyes are so dark you can hardly see his pupils. You just see two big black holes, as in a dead man’s skull. Like yellow parchment is his skin, and a hole serves as his nose—the nose which never grew. As for his hair . . . hah! You call that mess hair?”

            Okay, so the stagehand wasn’t exactly the nicest person, but he did have a sort of grudging respect from the rest of the Opera House. Tall and thin—much like the Phantom he described—with thick curls of gray hair, pale green eyes, and fierce bushy eyebrows, not to mention a fairly modest black ensemble save for the red lining of his coat, he certainly commanded attention wherever he went or whenever he spoke. While usually a serious man, he wasn’t above directing sly insults at those he considered beneath him.

            Sarah Jane Smith, when she had once caught him describing the Phantom to a few frightened chorus girls (with sound effects and playful acting for good measure) had been quick to scold him:

            “Those who speak of what they know find too late that prudent silence is wise. Peter Zwölf, hold your tongue! Keep your hand at the level of your eyes!”

            The girls never were sure what she had meant by that.

            Now, after Amy’s announcement, Gwen’s dressing room was filled with an agonized silence, the only audible sound being that of the girls’ labored breathing. At last Amy, who had flung herself into the furthest corner of the wall, real terror etched onto her face, hissed, “Listen!”

            They all strained their ears, thought they heard a faint rustling on the other side of the door. There were no footsteps, and the rustling sounded to them like silk sliding over the panel. Then it stopped.

            Every girl’s head turned to look in the same direction.

            “Don’t look at me!” said Gwen indignantly.

            The girls continued to stare.

            Gwen sighed and rolled her eyes. “Fine!” Storming right up to the door, she called out, “Who’s there?”

            There was no reply. Then, feeling all the girls’ eyes upon her, watching her every movement, Gwen tried again: “Is there anyone behind the door? If there is, stop mucking about!” She reached out with her hand for the doorknob and was stopped by Donna.

            “Of course there is!” the sixteen-year-old snapped. “But if you want to open that door and possibly kill all of us, then go right ahead. It’s not like they”—she tilted her head meaningfully toward the other girls—“are going to stop you.”

            “Oh, and I suppose you are?”

            “Nope.” Donna grinned. “Too chicken.”

            Gwen shot her a glare through narrowed eyes but opened the door anyway. She stuck her head out into the hallway, looked left then right.

            There was not a soul there, just a gas flame in its glass prison casting a red, suspicious light into the surrounding darkness and failing to dispel it.

            Withdrawing back into her room, Gwen slammed the door shut. “No,” she said, “there’s no one there.”

            “But we saw him!” Amy insisted. “He has to be prowling around somewhere.”

            Gwen fought the urge to scream. “Look,” she said, forcing herself to sound reasonable, “no one’s ever actually seen the Phantom. So why don’t we—”

            “Oh yes, we saw him—just now!” protested the girls. “He had his death’s-head and everything—just like Peter Zwölf said!”

            “And Matt saw him, too,” Amy said, “just yesterday! Yesterday afternoon in broad daylight—”

            “Matt Elf, the lead tenor?”

            “Yes. Why, didn’t you know?”

            “And he was wearing his dress-clothes in broad daylight!”

            “Who, Matt?”

            “No, the Phantom!”

            Amy lifted her chin, somehow managing to stare all of them down—even the taller girls. “Yes! Matt told me so—that’s what he knew the Phantom by. He was in the stage manager’s office when suddenly the door opened and River Song entered. You know, River has the evil eye—”

            The girls answered an affirmative in unison, making the sign against ill luck by pointing their forefinger and pinky finger at the absent River Song while their second and third fingers were bent on the palm and held down by the thumb.

            “Well, you know how superstitious and eccentric Matt is,” Amy continued. “Kind of creepy, too, though he covers it up really well. Anyway, whenever he meets River he just puts his hand in his pocket and touches his keys. Well, the moment she appeared in the doorway, he jumped out of his chair and lunged for the cupboard lock just so he could touch iron! When he did, he tore a whole skirt of his overcoat on a nail. As he was hurrying out of the room, he banged his forehead against a hat-peg and gave himself a huge bump; then, suddenly stepping back, he skinned his arm on the screen, near the piano; he tried to lean on the piano, but the lid fell on his hands and crushed his fingers;” here, Amy winced in sympathy, “he rushed out of the office like a madman, slipped on the staircase, and came down the whole of the first flight on his back. I was just passing by with Rory when we saw him and picked him up. He was covered with bruises and his face was slicked red with blood. We both thought he was dead, but then he suddenly began thanking every deity in existence and saying that he’d gotten off lightly. He told us what had scared him: He had seen the Phantom behind River, _the ghost with the death’s-head_ just like Zwölf’s description!”

            Amy’s story had tumbled from her mouth faster and faster, as if she was afraid that the Phantom himself was listening in and would punish her, and she was out of breath when she finished. A silence followed, all the others staring at her with Donna, Grace, and Gwen’s arms crossed. At last Donna broke it by saying, “Zwölf would do better to hold his tongue.”

            “Why?” asked Christina de Souza, a pale seventeen-year-old singer with long straight black hair and pale blue eyes.

            “It’s Mum’s opinion,” said Donna, lowering her voice in an uncharacteristic attempt at being bashful. Her eyes looked around her, as if searching for any eavesdroppers.

            “And why is it?” Christina queried.

            “Quiet!” Donna hissed. “Sarah Jane says the Phantom doesn’t like to be talked about.”

            “Why does she say that?”

            “Because— Oh, forget it. It’s nothing. No one asked you anyway.”

            Christina, Lynda, Grace and the other girls were soon crowding Donna, hemming her in, peppering the air with questions. When Donna’s expression became clearly panicked, Gwen decided to put a stop to the interrogation.

            “All right, that’s enough!” she barked at the ballet and chorus girls. “Leave Donna alone. Now get out, all of you. There’s a rehearsal for _Hannibal_ in an hour, or have you forgotten that we’re performing tonight?”

            Silently, some acting ashamed of themselves at being told off, the girls filed out of the door and into the hallway. Gwen thought she saw Donna flash her a tiny grateful smile; then the redhead was gone.

            As the door shut behind the last girl, Gwen leaned back against her dressing table and sighed with relief. _I’m glad that’s over. Now I just have to prepare my speech for the gala tonight._

            It remained to be seen whether or not she would have the chance to actually perform her speech.

* * *

An hour later, everyone was out on the stage dressed in costumes for _Hannibal_. Reinette Poisson, the prima donna, was strutting through the crowd of dancers surrounding her. Her blonde hair was tied up in a bun at the nape of her neck, though what with the gold-and-feathery headdress it could hardly be seen. The costume was a floor-length dress with a gold top and deep red with gold sequins from her waist down. A blue-lined shawl went around her back, draped over her arms, and dipped in a low curve whenever Reinette raised her arms as she sang.

            “This trophy from our saviours, from our saviours from the enslaving force of Rome!” Her voice was tall, dark for a soprano, and filled with vibrato—an exaggeration of the way an opera singer _should_ sound.

            The opera cleaning staff clearly didn’t like it, as they were miming plugging their ears to each other.

            Reinette had barely finished her line when the girls’ chorus marched in, one hand fisted over their chests in a salute. “With feasting and dancing and song, tonight in celebration,  we greet the victorious throng, returned to bring salvation!” they sang as one, a mix of mezzo-sopranos (altos) and soprano ones and twos combining and forming chilling harmonies.

            Outside, a horse-drawn carriage was approaching the opera house. It stopped at the front entrance, and Jack Harkness and his half-brother the Count John Hart stepped out, made their way inside.

            The men’s chorus was singing, “The trumpets of Carthage resound! Hear, Romans, now and tremble! Hark to our step on the ground!”

            “Hear the drums, Hannibal comes!” everyone chorused.

            The crowd parted to make room for Matt—average height (maybe 5 foot 4), floppy light-brown hair, light green eyes—as he entered at stage right, surrounded by other men dressed as soldiers.  His voice was relatively deep for a tenor as he sang _fortissimo_ , “Sad to return to find the land we love threatened once more by Roma’s far-reaching grasp.”

            A quartet entered from the side: Wilfred Mott, a short, round gentleman with white hair and a beard; Monsieur Yana, slightly taller than Wilf with dark eyes, short white hair, and wearing black trousers, a white shirt, and back vest; along with two other men that no one recognized. One was dressed in a smart black suit, with a clean-shaven face and close-cropped black hair. The other had short medium-brown hair, a mustache, was starting to go bald at the crown of his head, and was also in fashionable attire. Adam Mitchell, the chorus master, greeted them with a short nod. “Gentlemen, gentlemen . . .” he said.

            Wilf spared the conductor a brief glance and tight smile while Yana was busy talking with the two strange men beside him. “Rehearsals, as you see, are under way, for a new production of Chalumeau’s _Hannibal_ ,” he was saying.

            Adam turned to the two managers, not even bothering to hide his irritation as he snapped, “Monsieur Yana, Monsieur Mott, I am rehearsing.”

            Yana ignored the chorus master’s irritation, decided now would be a good time to introduce the new arrivals. “Adam Mitchell, Sarah Jane Smith, ladies and gentlemen,” he called, “please if I could have your attention, thank you.” He waited until there was silence and everyone was watching him before continuing, “As you know, for some weeks there have been rumours of my and Wilfred’s imminent retirement.  I can now tell you that these were all true and it is our pleasure to introduce you to the two gentlemen who now own the Palais Garnier: Harold Saxon and Henry van Statten.”

            Noticing Jack and John enter the room, Harold Saxon gestured with a sweep of his right hand in their direction and said, “And we are deeply honoured to introduce our new patrons, the Comte John Hart and his brother the Viscount Jack Harkness.”

            “It’s ‘Captain’,” Jack muttered.

            He fell silent at John’s sharp look. Hart said to the managers and audience at large, “Our parents, my brother, and I are honoured to support all the arts especially the world renowned Palais Garnier.”

            Reinette discarded her entourage, hooked her arm through Matt’s, and oh-so-casually strolled in the direction of the managers and high-ranking patrons.

            “Comte, Viscount, Gentlemen, Mademoiselle Reinette Poisson, our leading soprano for five seasons now,” Yana introduced the French _prima donna_.

            “And Signor Matthew Elf,” added Wilfred, dipping his head to the tenor.

            “An honour, Sir,” said John, bowing to Matt. Straightening, he added, “I believe I’m keeping you from your rehearsal.”

            “We will be here this evening to share your great triumph. Our apologies, monsieur,” Jack said, giving Matt a (slightly) mocking salute with his first two fingers. He knew about the man’s reputation and didn’t like what he heard. While he wouldn’t be keeping a close eye on the singer, it wouldn’t hurt to be a little more aware of his whereabouts and actions.

            Yana accepted the apology: “Thank you, Monsieur le Viscount. Once more if you please, signor.” This last was to Matt.

            As the half-brothers walked out of the room, Reinette made her way to the back of the stage, a small smile on her face. “He loves me!” (Those who heard her were unsure as to who she was referring to: Matt, the Comte, or the Viscount?)

            Sarah Jane, meanwhile, was showing the soon-to-be new managers around the stage, filling them in on some of the house’s history. “We take a particular pride here in the excellence of our ballets, monsieur,” she said as she passed a couple girls practicing their dance moves for the gala.

            “I see why, especially that little redhead,” said Harold Saxon, nodding his head toward Donna, who was performing a _pirouette._

            “My daughter, Donna,” Sarah Jane said. 

            Saxon’s eye had spotted another girl next to Donna. She was currently in a low crouch, her weight centered over her quads and glutes, spine straight. Her blonde hair, slightly wavy today, hung just past her shoulders. She turned slowly, and Saxon saw that she had a heart-shaped face with large golden-brown eyes.  He remarked to Sarah Jane, “And that exceptional beauty? No relation, I trust.”

            “Rose Tyler, promising talent, Monsieur Saxon,” was the reply. “Very promising.”

            “Tyler, you say?” he asked. “No relation to the famous English violinist and inventor?”

            “His only child, orphaned at ten, when she came to live in France and train in the ballet dormitory.”

            “An orphan, you say!” His exclamation was soon lost over the chorus singing, “Bid welcome to Hannibal’s guests, the elephants of Carthage! As guides on our conquering quests, Dido sends Hannibal’s friends!”

            Reinette and Matt’s voices joined in with that of the chorus: “The trumpeting elephants sound, hear, Romans, now and tremble!  Hark to their step on the ground, hear the drums! Hannibal comes!”

            When the song was finished, van Statten turned to Adam Mitchell. “Mosieur Mitchell, isn’t there a rather marvelous aria for Elissa in Act Three of _Hannibal_? Perhaps if Signora . . .”

            Reinette was at his side in an instant. “Yes . . .Yes . . .Monsieur Mitchell?”

            “If my diva commands,” Adam began. 

            “Yes I do.”

            An hour later, the stage was cleared and the managers and various staff who had stuck around were waiting to hear Reinette sing her solo. The opening notes started up and Reinette, who was at center stage, took a deep breath and started to sing, “Think of me. Think of me fondly when we’ve said good-bye. Remember me every so often, promise me you’ll try.”

            The cleaning staff surreptitiously handed each other soft wax to stuff in their ears to block out the soprano diva’s voice. Behind Reinette, a shadowy figure unnoticed by everyone climbed up the ladder leading to the catwalks above the stage where the scenery backdrops and other props were kept.

            “. . . On that day, that not so distant day, when you are far away and free—”

            Suddenly a scenery curtain fell from and landed on Reinette, pinning her to the stage floor. Lynda screamed.

            “Oh my God, Reinette!” Adam exclaimed, starting to rush forward.

            The diva was in a right state. “I hate you!” she raged at everyone and no-one. “Lift it up!”

            At once, Donna suspected who was responsible. “He’s here, the Phantom of the Opera,” she breathed, eyes wide with fear.

            Wilfred reached Reinette’s side, was attempting to help move the scenery curtain off of her. “Signora, are you all right?” he asked her.

            Yana, while his partner was busy, glanced up into the wings and called out, “Peter! For God’s sake, man, what is going on up there?”

            The chief stagehand’s head appeared, looking as innocent as possible. “Please, monsieur, don’t look at me. As God’s my judge, I wasn’t at my post.” He looked around swiftly to check. “Please, monsieur, there’s no one there!” He paused, considered it, grinned. “Or if there is, well then . . . it must be a ghost.” He gave a short, cackling laugh.

            Reinette was free from the curtain by now, looking thoroughly upset and angry. Van Statten tried to reassure her.

            “Mademoiselle, these things do happen.”

            Reinette angrily turned to Yana and Wilf. “For the past three years ‘these things do happen,’” she snapped. “And did you stop them from happening? No!” Turning on van Statten and Saxon she raged,“And you two, you are as bad as him! ‘These things do happen!’ UGH!” She couldn’t resist stomping her foot in disgust. Gesturing wildly with her arms, she ranted, “Until you stop these things from happening, _this_ thing”—she pointed at herself—“does not happen! Matt! Lynda! Bring my doggy and my boxy!” With that, she started to storm offstage in a huff, her loyal lackeys right behind her.

            “Amateurs,” Matt grumbled as they passed by.

            Reinette didn’t bother looking back as she said, “Now you see, bye-bye, I’m really leaving.”

            Yana told the new managers, “Gentlemen, good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Australia.”

            “I will be in London,” Wilfred informed them.

            The two former managers then walked offstage and outside.

            Van Statten and Saxon exchanged worried glances. Saxon put into words what they were both thinking about Reinette: “She will be coming back, won't she?”

            Sarah Jane’s attention had been grabbed by a white envelope with a red wax seal in the form of a skull that had fallen from the catwalk. She walked over and picked it up, then returned to the two managers. “You think so, monsieur? I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost.”

            “Oh, God in heaven, you’re all obsessed,” said Saxon, rolling his eyes, not even bothering to hide his irritation.

            Sarah Jane ignored him, broke the wax seal, and unfolded the parchment letter. Reading it, she said, “He welcomes you to his opera house—”

            “ _His_ opera house?” interrupted Saxon incredulously.

            “—and commands that you continue to leave Box Five empty for his use,” Sarah Jane continued, “and reminds you that his salary is due.”

            “His salary?” repeated van Statten.

            Sarah Jane shrugged. “Well, Monsieurs Yana and Mott used to give him twenty thousand francs a month.”

            “Twenty thousand francs?!” the managers cried in disbelief.

            “Perhaps you can afford more with the Comte and Viscount as your patrons?” Sarah Jane suggested in an innocent tone, though there was a shrewd gleam in her eyes.

            Saxon’s tone only thinly veiled his anger and irritation: “Madame, I had hoped to make that announcement public tonight when the Comte and Viscount were to join us for the gala. But obviously”—he ripped the note in two—“we shall now have to cancel”—the note was ripped into fourths—“as it appears we have lost our star!” The note was now ripped into eighths and thrown into the air, where the pieces fluttered before landing in lazy swirls.

            “Surely there must be an . . . an understudy!” van Statten exclaimed.

            “Understudy?” echoed Adam. “There is no understudy for Reinette!”

            Saxon’s face was now in “not funny is like this” mode. “A full house, Henry! We shall have to refund a full house!”

            Sarah Jane spoke up. “Rose Tyler could sing it, sir.”

            “What, a chorus girl?” van Statten said in surprise. Then he scoffed. “Don't be silly!” He waved a hand dismissively.

            “She has been taking lessons from a great teacher,” said Sarah Jane, hoping to convince him.

            “Who?” Saxon asked.

            “I don’t know his name, monsieur,” said Rose, her cheeks flushing and golden-brown eyes downcast. There was London in her voice.

“Let her sing for you, monsieur,” Sarah Jane coaxed. “She has been well taught,” she added, hoping to persuade him.

            Harold Saxon thought for a moment then sighed. “All right. Come on,” he said in a friendlier voice to Rose. “Don’t be shy. Just . . . Just . . .”

            Adam saved him from saying anything more. “From the beginning of the aria then, please, madamoiselle.”

“Harry, this is doing nothing for my nerves,” van Statten muttered in an undertone to his partner.

“Well, she’s very pretty,” Saxon returned quietly.

            Rose swallowed hard, nervously stepped forward to center stage. She took a couple breaths to steady her nerves, one more to fill her lungs and engage her diaphragm.

 _“_ Think of me, think of me fondly,” she began, “when we’ve said good-bye. Remember me once in a while. Please promise me you’ll try.”

            Up in the rafters, Peter’s attention had been caught by movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head, thought he saw a black cloak whisk out of sight behind a roll of scenery.

          “On that day, that not so distant day, when you are far away and free, if you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me. . . .”

            Peter was only just hearing the girl’s voice now as he had stopped paying attention—though she had a lovely, mature voice for an eighteen-year-old. He had definitely seen something behind the scenery, and now he was moving to investigate. Slowly, cautiously, he crept forward to where he had seen the black fabric disappear, followed its elusive path down below the stage.

            It was the last thing he ever did.

            The last thing he could remember seeing was a figure cloaked in black wearing a white half-mask on its face. Then there was a choking sensation around his throat; he saw stars; the world faded to black as he struggled to breathe; and then there was nothing else but darkness.

            His body would not be found until hours later.

* * *

After rehearsal was over, the ballet girls were back in Gwen Cooper’s dressing room, joking, laughing, and larking about. (Yet again, the room’s usual occupant found herself wishing the girls would just leave her alone.) Naturally, it wasn’t long before talk turned to what had happened onstage with Reinette.

            “It was the Phantom—I’m sure of it!” Lynda declared.

            The others nodded their agreement, even Donna. Grace and Gwen were the only ones who still seemed skeptical.

            “It could have been an accident,” Grace pointed out.

            “Right,” Christina said sarcastically. “Like a scenery curtain fell on its own without help at the most opportune moment to take out Reinette and have Rose sing in her place.” She sniffed. “Too coincidental, if you ask me.”

            “You would know about those, wouldn’t you?” remarked Martha Jones, a slim pretty black girl. It was a direct barb at Christina, who bristled. The fair-skinned, blue-eyed, raven-haired girl came from a family of aristocrats and had turned thief before joining the opera house at age thirteen. She was seventeen now and occasionally still used her skills as a thief during some of the productions. Before Christina could give Martha’s comment a sharp retort, Amy cut in:

            “Donna, what were you going to tell us about the Phantom?”

            “Nothing, honest!”

            “What was that note about the box then?”

            Donna’s eyes glared daggers at the girls once again crowding her, then softened and lit with puzzlement. “You really didn’t know about the private box?”

            “What private box?”

            “The Phantom’s box! Are you really that thick?”

            “The Phantom has a private box?” repeated Grace dryly, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

            “Yes. It’s Box Five. You know, the box on the grand tier, next to the stage box, on the left.” Donna’s entire demeanor was now challenging Grace to say something to debunk what she had just heard.

            “That’s ridiculous. Do you even have a brain between your ears?”

            “Do you?” Donna shot back instantly.

            Lynda’s question cut the tension between the two redheads: “How do you know, Donna?”

            “Sarah Jane—my mum—has charge of it; she told me. You swear you won’t tell anyone I’ve told you?”

            “Of course, of course.”

            “Well, Box Five is the Phantom’s. No one else has had it for over a month, except the Phantom obviously, and orders have been given for it to never be sold at the box office.”

            “And the Phantom really comes there?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then somebody does come there?”

            “Well, no! The Phantom comes, but there is nobody there,” Donna admitted.

            Amy, Martha, Christina, Lynda, Grace, and the other girls exchanged glances. That made no sense. If the Phantom came to the box then he had to be seen: he wore dress-clothes and a death’s-head. How could he be there and not be seen? They tried to make Donna understand this, but she replied:

            “That’s just it! He _isn’t_ seen. He doesn’t have a death’s-head or dress-coat, either. All that talk about his death’s-head and his head of fire is rubbish. There’s nothing in it. When he is in the box, you only _hear_ him. Mum has never seen him, but she has heard him. She knows because she gives him his program.”

            Gwen interfered.

            “You’re having us on, Donna!”

            “I am not! You go up into his box sometime, then, and see for yourself!” Her defiant expression faded suddenly; her eyes went wide, her face drawn and pale. “Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. I was right, though: Eyebrows”—the others assumed she meant Peter, as he _did_ have very bushy, prominent eyebrows—“shouldn’t have been talking about things that didn’t concern him, had no business sticking his nose in where it doesn’t belong. It’ll be the death of him, just you wait.”

            No sooner had the words left Donna’s mouth than when they heard a pounding on the door and a voice calling, “Amy! Amy!”

            “That’s Rory!” Amy lunged for the door, opened it, and stood back.

            Rory Williams, her boyfriend and physician-in-training, stumbled in. His short light-brown hair was sticking up at odd angles and his normally calm gray eyes were dark and upset. “You’re not going to believe it.”

            “What is it?”

            “Peter Zwölf—

            “What about him?”

            “He’s dead!”

            “WHAT?!”

            Rory nodded. “They found him hanging in the third-floor cellar.”

            “It’s the Phantom!” one of the younger girls blurted instantly. Then she covered her shocked face with her hands, as if to correct herself. “No! No, I didn’t say it!—I didn’t say it!—”

            All around her, the others, panic-stricken, were repeating under their breaths, “Yes—it must be the Phantom!”

            Gwen’s face was so pale now that her many freckles stood out in stark relief. All she could say, however, was, “Now I’ll never be able to recite my speech.”

            Rory gave his opinion while pulling Amy in for a comforting hug: “The Phantom must have had something to do with it.”

            Amy flinched back, her green eyes narrowed. “You don’t really believe that, do you?”

            “You know I don’t really believe in the Phantom,” he told her, “but . . . if the Phantom is that important to you, I’ll support you.”

            “Even if everyone else thinks I’m crazy, right?”

            “You’re not crazy,” he assured her. “And it’s not just you who blames this Phantom on everything; you know that.”

            Amy’s glare softened; she snuggled back against him. “Yeah. Thanks.”

            “Do you know what happened, Rory?” Clara Oswald asked, disrupting the moment.

            He explained that he wasn’t entirely sure, that he’d heard the news from the managers. They had been in their office when Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, the acting manager, had run into their office and announced that a stagehand had been found hanging in the third cellar under the stage, between a farmhouse and a scene from the _Roi de Lahore_. Saxon had shouted at Kate to cut him down.

            By the time both Saxon and van Statten had made it down the staircase and Jacob’s ladder, the man was no longer hanging from his rope—the rope had gone.

            Rory told them that van Statten’s explanation was that it was possibly a suicide. The dancing girls lost no time in taking their precautions against the evil eye.

            Naturally, they then went and emptied out of Gwen’s dressing room, making their way for the foyer as fast as their legs could carry them.


	3. Chapter 2

Later that night, the gala was on. Rose was currently onstage in front of a full house. The spotlight illuminated her hair, shimmering gold against her white dress, and her nerves from the previous rehearsal were gone. Her voice, to the audience, seemed ethereal, more confident.

            “. . . And though it's clear, though it was always clear, that this was never meant to be, if you happen to remember, stop and think of me.

            “Think of August when the trees were green. Don’t think about the way things might have been.

            “Think of me, think of me waking silent and resigned. Imagine me trying too hard to put you from my mind.

            “Think of me, please say you'll think of me, whatever else you choose to do. There will never be a day when I won’t think of you. . . .”

            Up in one of the boxes, Jack was watching with his brother. His eyes narrowed for a moment as he studied Rose, then widened in recognition. No, it couldn’t be. The last time he’d seen her had been in England . . .

 _Can it be? Could it really be Rose?_ Out loud he shouted, “Brava!” _Long ago,_ he thought, _it seemed so long ago. How young and innocent we were. She may not remember me, but I remember her._

            “. . . Flowers fade; fruits of summer fade. They have their seasons; so do we. But please promise me that sometimes you will think of me . . . !” Rose held out the final note, slowly raised her hands from waist to mid-chest level, arms straight and palms facing supine. The instant the note died away, the room erupted in applause. Smiling broadly, Rose curtsied, her dress pooling around her as the curtains drew shut.

            The audience left their seats; the moment the curtains closed some of the ballet girls were helping Rose offstage, while the others took off for their dressing rooms to go change into more casual clothes.

            Lynda and Christina ran into the Count and Viscount as the latter were coming out of the performance hall, with Gwen right behind the two girls. John seemed unusually excited, his eyes lighting up as he spotted Gwen. “Gwen Cooper!” he exclaimed. “I was hoping to see you tonight!”

            “I’m engaged to be married,” she informed him coolly; Jack ducked his head to hide the smile creeping on his face.

            His half-brother didn’t seem to have heard her. “It was a brilliant evening. And Rose Tyler!” he continued. “What a triumph! How is it she was kept this long from us?”

            Lynda scoffed; her expression was one of disdain. Christina’s own eyes glittered scornfully. “Rose, a triumph? Impossible!” A strand of dark hair fell in front of her eyes; she pushed it back. “Six months ago she sang like a _crow_. But do let us get by, my dear count,” Christina continued, with a saucy curtsy. “We are going to enquire after a poor man who was found hanging by the neck.”

            Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, acting manager, had the misfortune to pass by just in time to hear Christina’s remark. “What? How have you heard already?” She stopped, considered it, then shook her head. “I don’t know why I bothered asking. You girls know everything that goes on here even more than we do.” Her tone sharpened. “Forget about it. It’s Wilfred and Yana’s last night, and finding out would only upset them.”

            “What, they haven’t left Paris yet?” Lynda asked in surprise.

            “Did you really think they would?” Kate returned dryly.

            “Well . . . no.”

            “They were planning on leaving tonight, after the gala.” Kate shrugged. “I thought it was obvious or that they had told you, but apparently not. Now, if you two would carry on, please.”

            They all went on to the foyer of the ballet, which was already full of people. Comte Hart was right; no gala performance ever equaled this one. Rose had been simply stunning and had managed to usurp and sing even better than Reinette. During the performance, the Comte had heard all of the whispers and protests: Why had so great a treasure been kept from them all this time? Until then, Rose had done just fine in minor roles while Reinette had always played the lead. And it had taken Reinette’s incomprehensible and inexcusable absence from this gala night for the little blonde Tyler, at a moment’s warning, to show all that she could do in the role reserved for the French diva! Well, what the subscribers wanted to know was, why had Yana and Mott applied to Rose Tyler, when Reinette Poisson was taken ill? Did they know of her hidden genius? And, if they _did_ know of it, why had they kept it hidden? Why had she kept it hidden? Oddly enough, she was not known to the general public to have a singing professor at that moment.  She had often said she meant to practice alone for the future. The whole thing was a mystery.

             The Comte Hart, standing up in his box, had heard all of this frenzy and took part in it by loudly applauding.  John Hart was forty-one years of age, with close-cropped dark brown hair, dark eyes, and a surprisingly well-toned body. He was a great aristocrat and a rather good-looking man, despite his rather cold eyes. John was exquisitely polite to the women—more so than he should be, as he would flirt with almost any female or male who caught his eye—and a little haughty and indifferent to the men who did not always forgive him for his successes in society—or his private affairs. After his father’s death, he had become the head of one of the oldest and most distinguished families in France; his half-brother through their mother, Jack, had inherited the Boeshane Peninsula—the Face of Boe, some called him.

            Jack was twenty years younger than his older half-brother, and had spent some time over in England as a young boy, staying with a friend of his called Gary. At the time of John’s father’s death, Jack had been twelve years old—he’d moved back to France to live with his brother, somehow sporting an American accent upon his return.

            In any case, John would not have been there had it not been for Jack persuading him to become a patron for the Palais Garnier. After the performance, Jack had seemed restless, and John figured now would be as a good a time as any to turn his younger half-brother loose.  With a quick tap on Jack’s shoulder and a slight nudge of his fingers, John silently informed his younger brother he was free to go wherever he wished.

            After all, he wouldn’t want to hang around with his elder brother by twenty years after an opera performance either.

            It wasn’t long before Jack was lost in the crowd.   

* * *

As Rose crouched before the little altar in the stone-walled room that served as a place where the opera singers, dancers, and workers could go for spiritual guidance and pray without being disturbed, she thought she heard an oh-so-familiar voice declare, “Brava, brava, bravissima . . .!”

            Donna’s voice followed her: “Rose! Rose!”

            _“Rose_ ,” she thought she heard the voice echo softly.

            “Where in the world have you been hiding?” Donna asked, entering the room and coming up behind her. “Really, Rose, you were brilliant! I just wish I knew your secret. Who is this new tutor of yours? Cos honestly, the way you’re singing now, you could be the next _prima donna_.”

            A smile lifted the corners of Rose’s mouth; then it was gone. “Father once spoke of an angel,” she told Donna. “I used to dream he’d appear.” Breaking into song she continued, “Now as I sing I can sense him, and I know he’s here!

            “Here in this room he calls me softly, somewhere inside hiding. Somehow I know he’s always with me—he, the unseen genius!”

            “I watched your face from the shadows, distant through all the applause. I hear your voice in the darkness, yet the words aren’t yours.” Donna shook her head, her blue eyes worried and concerned for once. “Rose, you must have been dreaming. Stories like this can’t come true, and you know it. Rose, you’re talking in riddles and it’s not like you!”

            The blonde singer ignored her and called upon her instructor. “Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory!”

            “Who is this angel?” Donna asked herself. “This—“

            Rose started singing again, and Donna found herself joining her friend: “Angel of Music, hide no longer, secret and strange angel.”

            Rose stopped walking, faced Donna. “He’s with me even now,” she said, her golden-brown eyes now the color of whiskey.

            Donna, concerned, reached out and grasped her friend’s hand. “Your hands are cold,” she noticed, more out of surprise and in need of something to say than anything else. It was true: Rose’s hands were as cold as ice. From fear? Or something else?

            “All around me . . .” Rose continued quietly, her eyes flitting around the room as if she could physically see her Angel of Music.

            Still, there was something about the way she did it, something about her expression, her body language . . . And she was pale—so, so pale . . . Donna couldn’t help commenting on it.

            “It frightens me,” was the response. What exactly, she didn’t say.

            The only thing Donna could say was “Don’t be frightened” as she threw an arm around Rose’s shoulders, hoping to comfort her friend.

            After a few minutes, Rose pulled back, gave Donna a shaky smile. “Are you a dancer or a singer?” she joked.

            “What? Me, a singer?” Donna looked shocked. “Never!”

            That earned her a small laugh from Rose.

            They were outside Rose’s dressing room now, entered the smaller room. No sooner had Rose sat down at her small desk than they heard the familiar sound of Sarah Jane’s voice: “Donna! What are you doing in here? You should be with the others.”

            The redhead jumped. “Sorry, mum.” She turned, hurried out of the room with a quick glance back at Rose. Then she was gone, heading back to where the other dancers were congregated.

            Sarah Jane stepped up to behind Rose’s chair, handed her a red rose. “You sang well tonight. He is very pleased.”

            There was no need to ask who she was referring to; they both knew—all too well. Rose accepted the thorny flower, brought it to her nose, and sniffed. Her eyes fluttered closed as she inhaled its lovely scent.

            She’d sung for _him_ tonight, as always. He’d taken Reinette out of the picture for her, had given her a chance to prove herself to the public . . . but it was the praise of only one who mattered.

            Yes, she’d do anything to please him.

* * *

Jack stopped just outside Rose’s dressing room door as he heard Saxon’s voice behind him:

            “Ah, Viscount!”

            Jack stifled a sigh, turned to face the two mangers. “Yes?”

            “I’d say we made quite a discovery with Ms. Tyler,” said van Statten.

            “Perhaps we could present you to her, dear Viscount,” Saxon added, with an oily smooth smile.

            “If you don’t mind, gentlemen,” said Jack, “this is one visit I’d prefer to make alone.”

            As he opened the door and slipped inside, he heard Saxon comment, “It appears they know each other quite well.”

            Once he closed the door and laid eyes on Rose, however, it didn’t matter whether he‘d heard Saxon or not.

            Her back was to him; he crept up silently, covered her eyes with his hands.

            “Little Lottie, let her mind wander. Little Lottie thought, ‘Am I fonder of dolls or of goblins or of shoes?’” he said.

            Rose tensed. “Who is it?”

            “The one who fetched your red scarf from the sea, all those years ago.”

            “Jack—?” Still, she relaxed into his touch.

            “Or of riddles or frocks?” he continued, as if he had never been interrupted.

            “Those picnics in the attic,” she interjected.

            “Or of chocolates?”

            “Father playing the violin.”

            “As we read to each other dark stories of the north.”

            “No,” said Rose. “‘What I loved best,’ Lottie said, ‘was when I’m asleep in my bed.’ And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head,” she sang softly.

            Jack’s voice twined with hers as they sang _piano_ : “The Angel of Music sings songs in my head.”

            “You sang like an angel tonight,” he told her.

            Rose turned in her chair, faced him. “Father said, ‘When I am in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.’ Well, Father is dead, Jack, and I have been visited by the Angel of Music.”

            He couldn’t stop the small laugh. “Oh, no doubt of it. And now, we go to supper.”

            Rose put a hand on top of his. “No, Jack.” Her voice was suddenly stern. “The Angel of Music is very strict.”

            He forced himself to sound playful: “Well, I shan’t keep you too late.” He laughed again.

            “Jack, no.”

            Stepping back, he ignored her. “You must change. I’ll order my carriage. Two minutes, Little Lottie.”

            “No, Jack, wait!”

            Rose reached out a hand to stop him, but he was already heading out the door. Jack had only made it a few steps before he thought he heard another voice inside Rose’s room. Hurrying back, he pressed his ear to the door.

            Inside her room, Rose had just come out from behind her wardrobe curtain with her golden hair—done up in curls for tonight—hanging around her face when a cold wind suddenly swept around her room, snuffed out the candles. _He_ was here.

            “Insolent boy, this slave of fashion, basking in _your_ glory. Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor sharing in _my_ triumph!” Jack, outside the door, heard a male voice declare angrily.

            “Don’t say that!” Rose protested.

            The voice softened, turned curiously masterful:

            “Rose, you must love me!”

            Jack could hear her voice, sad and trembling, as if accompanied by tears, as she replied, “How can you talk like that? _When I sing only for you!”_

            His heart pounding in his chest, so loud he was sure the two of them could hear it, Jack pressed his ear even closer to the door panel.

            “Are you very tired?” the male voice asked.

            “Oh, tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead!”

            “Your soul is a beautiful thing, child,” replied the grave man’s voice (did it have an English accent? Or was it Scottish?), “and I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. _The angels wept tonight_.”

            There was silence for a few moments. Jack, however, did not go away. He stepped back, decided to wait until the man would leave the room. All at once, he was irrationally jealous. Just who was this man to speak to Rose in that manner?

            Inside, oblivious to the eavesdropper outside her door, Rose ducked her head. “Then at least allow me to see you. Please. After everything you’ve done for me . . .”

            “Flattering child, you shall know me,” the voice said after a couple heartbeats. “See why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror. . . .”

            As if in a trance, Rose started moving towards the mirror. Yes, she could just see a face hidden in shadows, could just make out a mask . . .

            “. . . I am there inside.”

            In her trancelike state, she could see that, in fact, _yes_ he was inside the mirror, one hand starting to reach out . . .

            “Angel of Music,” she pleaded, “guide and guardian, grant to me your glory. Angel of Music, hide no longer. Come to me, strange angel.”

            A gloved hand was reaching out, stretching beyond the glass, beckoning her . . . “I am your Angel of Music. Come to me, angel of music,” the masked face—her Angel—intoned.

            Jack rattled the door, suddenly afraid for Rose, and found the door was locked. “Whose is that voice?” He rattled the door again. “Who is that in there?!” he yelled.

            “I am your Angel of Music. . . .”

            “Rose! Rose!”

            “Come to the Angel of Music. . . .”

            Rose, oblivious to Jack’s protests, reached out and accepted the hand, stepped through the mirror. Her angel turned, covered her with his long black cloak, and they disappeared into his domain.

            Jack managed to burst open the dressing room door moments later. He closed the door, found himself in absolute darkness. The candles had been blown out and the gas turned off.

            “There’s someone here!” His voice echoed back at him in the dark room. “I know there is! Show yourself, you coward! What are you waiting for?”

            He struck a match. The blaze lit up the room . . . but there was no one there besides himself. A quick search turned up nothing.

            Nervous now, Jack shook his head in defiance, as if he could deny what his eyes were telling him: that he was the only one in the room. Rose had just been in here; he’d heard her! The same with the strange man, too. How could they have just vanished into thin air?

            “I must be going mad,” he said aloud.

            He stood there for at least five minutes, then went out, not knowing what he was doing nor where he was going. Occasionally an icy draft struck him in the face on his wayward progress back to the others. Eventually Jack found himself at the bottom of a staircase, down which, behind him, a procession of workmen were carrying a sort of stretcher, covered with a white sheet.

            “Which is the way out?” he asked one of the men.

            “Straight in front of you; the door is open. But let us pass.”

            Pointing to the stretcher, Jack asked, “What is that?”

            “‘That’ is Peter Zwölf, who was found dead in the third cellar, hanging between a farmhouse and a scene from the _Roi de Lahore_.”

            Jack bowed his head, fell back to make room for the procession, and went out to join his half-brother. 


	4. Chapter 3

Rose followed the figure in black, her hand in his, as he led her down a stone passageway, a lantern held in his other hand. Every now and then he would turn back to face her, and she couldn’t help noticing he had really great thick chestnut hair and eyes such a dark brown they were almost black. A half-mask covered the right side of his face.

            Was she imagining it, or was there fog curling around her feet, seeping out from between the cracks in the stone? And the hand holding hers seemed all too real. She’d believed in her angel but never the Phantom. And yet . . .

He’d sung to her in sleep, come to her in dreams. She’d heard him calling to her, his voice speaking her name in that way only he could.  _And do I dream again?_ _For now I find the Phantom of the Opera is there inside my mind!_

            They were descending a staircase now, some part of her noticed vaguely, but her surroundings faded into the background at the sound of his oh-so-familiar voice. She let it wash over her, didn’t even try to pay attention to the lyrics. _Sweet Angel, don’t stop._

            Something caused her to stop, look back; he went on for a couple more paces before returning to her.

            Rose could just make out a large white shape in the darkness. Cool hands gripped her by the waist, lifted her onto the white shape’s back. It nickered; she recognized the sound as belonging to Arthur. Something stirred faintly at the back of her mind, a recollection of the grooms panicking over the light gray (almost white) stallion’s disappearance from the stable . . .

            Then Arthur was walking forward, led by the Phantom—he _was_ the Phantom, she knew now—and Rose’s body swayed with the gentle four-beat gait.

            Time had lost all meaning for her. She wasn’t sure—couldn’t be sure—how long she rode Arthur sidesaddle, but then he was brought to a halt and her escort was helping her slide down from the pale stallion’s back. He turned the horse free, helped guide her into a boat on the shore of a lake, the waters lapping gently. Using a long pole, he cast the boat off, ushered them through the water and mist.

            Rose took in her surroundings with wide eyes, looked back at the figure that now reminded her of Charon. Stories of the Phantom flashed in her mind how everyone who had seen him drew back in horror. _She_ was his mask for when she was onstage, using the techniques he’d taught her, singing for him— _only for him._

            _He’s there, the Phantom of the Opera,_ voices whispered in Rose’s mind. _Beware the Phantom of the Opera!_

            The voices were driven out of her head once more at the sound of _his_ voice:

            “In all your fantasies, you always knew that man and mystery—”

            Rose turned around in the little boat, faced him. “Were both in you,” she finished, crooning the last word.

            Through the mist and firelight from candles that had risen out of the water, Rose could see . . . _something_. A room? A house? She wasn’t sure. The fog, mist, firelight . . . and now a strange blue light . . .

            “Sing, my Angel of Music!” he commanded.

            She complied with a series of “aaah”s.

            “Sing for me!”

            She was—could he not hear her?

            “Sing, my Angel.”

            Her notes were rising and falling, going ever stranger as she went on.

            “SING!”

            The boat had reached the shore . . .

            He was carrying her out of the little boat, onto dry land . . .

            “Sing for _me_!”

            She reached the top of her range, held it for four beats, then let the note die away. Her hand came up to her throat, started to massage her trachea.

            With a sudden burst of maniac energy, he was at a pipe organ comping out chords. Rose found herself staring at him, mouth slightly open, and she closed it quickly. Then she remembered Arthur, and her mouth operated on its own:

            “What was a horse doing down here?”

            He stopped playing and looked at her incredulously. “What was a horse doing down here? What’s a house doing on an underground lake, Rose? Have a little perspective.”

            She shut her mouth again, silently cursing her lack of filter. Seconds later, the air was filled with the sounds of minor chords.

“I have brought you to the seat of sweet music’s throne, to this kingdom where all must pay homage to music, music . . .”

            Somewhere in the back of her mind Rose knew she should be backing away, should be terrified . . .

            “You have come here for one purpose and one alone! Since the moment I first heard you sing I’ve needed you with me, to serve me, to sing for my music . . .”

            The music suddenly turned softer, more like a lullaby.

            He sang _pianissimo_ , the words almost a whisper, of nighttime, of darkness and imagination, of the senses heightening and abandoning their own defenses. “Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor; grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender.” He had come out from behind the organ now, moved closer to Rose. “Turn your face away from the garish light of day.” One hand reached out, cupped her chin, turned her head to face him. “Turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light”—his hand slipped away; he slid to the side, behind her—“and listen to the music of the night.”

            Rose’s eyelids fluttered shut, almost as if on cue, as he willed her to surrender to her darkest dreams. Though she couldn’t see him, she could sense him moving in a circle around her. His song wrapped around her, urged her to forget her former life and allow her spirit to soar. If she did, she would live as she’d never lived before.

            His voice was back to that _piano_ whisper, painting pictures in her mind of music softly and oh so gently whirling in the air around her. She could almost picture the notes twirling, spinning, dancing. In her mind, with his words, music was almost a tangible, living thing--one that secretly possessed those of its craft. She couldn’t fight this darkness—the darkness of the music of the night—so why try? If she just gave in, opened up her mind and allowed her fantasies to unwind and play out . . . She could have everything. _They—_ mentor and student _—_ could have it all.

            Rose’s eyes opened; she watched, spellbound, as he moved around his lair, his stride reminding her of one of the large cats—a panther, maybe.

            Now he was compelling her to once again leave the life she’d left behind, to journey with him to a strange new world, to let her soul take her where she longed to be.  Dropping once more to _pianissimo_ , he declared, “Only then can you belong to me.”

            He was behind her now, his hands almost hesitantly running over her sides, moving down to her waist and hips. The sideburns on the left side of his face tickled the skin of her cheek. “Floating, falling, sweet intoxication.” One hand covered hers, brought it up to the unmasked side of his face. “Touch me, trust me,” he practically purred, the sound almost a hiss, “savor each sensation.” Suddenly he dropped her hand, stepped away from her body. “Let the dream begin! Let your darker side give in to the power of the music that I write—the power of the music of the night.”

            His hand found hers once more; gently he led her over to what looked like a mannequin with a wedding dress, a veil covering its face. Rose stared in shock when the veil was lifted: it was a perfect wax replica . . . of herself.

            Suddenly light-headed and dizzy, she fainted. Arms caught her before she could hit the ground, carried her into another room—one that looked a lot like one of the dressing rooms in the theater above—and laid her down on a comfortable bed.

            He tucked her in, pulling the covers up around her—his muse, his precious girl. She alone could make his song take flight, could help him make the music of the night.

            Once he was sure that Rose was comfortable and sound asleep, he left her and made his way through one of his many passageways to where the dinner would be held.

            The gala party was still going on, and he liked to keep tabs on what was going on in _his_ theater, after all.

* * *

Five floors up from the underground lake, the gala party was in full swing.

            A few of the dancers had long since changed into ordinary dresses; but most of them wore gossamer gauze skirts; and all had thought it was the right thing to wear, to put on a special face for the occasion. All of them, that is, except for Amy Pond, who seemed to have forgotten all about the Phantom and Zwölf’s death already. She never ceased to laugh, chatter, or dance with Rory. Occasionally she would pull a few practical jokes, but the moment Wilfred Mott and Yana had appeared she was severely brought to heel by Gwen Cooper.

            The two managers had paused in front of their lead ballerina, already smiling too broadly up on her as she began her speech. If they were upset over their retirement, they knew better than to show it. Life in Paris was one masked ball, and the foyer of the ballet was the last place in which men such as Wilfred and Yana would have made the mistake of betraying their grief, however genuine it might be; hence the too-broad smiles and forced gaiety. A sharp exclamation from Amy, however, wiped the smiles from the managers’ faces so swiftly and completely that their expressions of distress and dismay that lay beneath became apparent to all eyes:

            “The Phantom of the Opera!”

            She yelled the words in a tone of unspeakable terror, and her finger pointed through the crowd to a pallid, disfigured face, with such dark brown eyes they were almost black. Hidden back in what little shadows remained, the result was grotesque and skeletal. In any case, his appearance was a huge success.

            “The Phantom of the Opera! The Phantom of the Opera!” Everybody laughed and pushed their neighbor and wanted to offer the Phantom a drink, but he was already gone. He had slipped through the crowd; the others vainly hunted for him, while two older gentlemen tried to calm Amy and Clara down, while Donna stood frozen in horror.

            Former managers Wilfred and Yana and now-current managers Saxon and van Statten made their way to their dinner table, where supper was being served. Wilf and Yana had handed their successors the master keys to the Palais Garnier, the little objects which opened all the doors—thousands of them—of the Opera house.  The keys were just being passed around, from hand to hand, when some of the guests’ attention was diverted by their discovery, at the end of the table, of the same pale masked face with the hollow eyes, which had already appeared in the ballet foyer and been greeted by little Amelia’s exclamation of “The Phantom of the Opera!”

            There sat the Phantom, as natural as could be, leaning back in the chair with his feet crossed and propped up on the table. He didn’t eat or drink. Those who started to smile at him ended up turning their heads away. No one repeated the earlier joke of the foyer; no one exclaimed, “There’s the Phantom of the Opera!”

            He himself never spoke a word and his neighbors could not be sure of the exact moment he had joined them. Wilfred and Yana’s friends thought that this lean and skinny guest was the acquaintance of Harold Saxon and Henry van Statten, and the friends of Saxon and van Statten thought the masked individual belonged to Wilfred Mott and Yana’s party.

            The end result was that no one made a request for an explanation; no unpleasant remark or joke in bad taste was said, for fear of offending this ghostly visitor. A few of those present who knew the Phantom’s story and the description of him given by the chief stagehand—they did not know about Zwölf’s death—thought, in their own minds, that the man at the end of the table could easily have passed for him; yet, according to the story, the Phantom had no nose and the person in question had.

            Wilf and Yana, sitting at the center of the table, had not seen the man with the half-mask. Suddenly he began to speak.

            “You know,” he said, picking up a goblet and turning it over in one hand, inspecting it, “the ballet girls are right. Perhaps the death of Peter Zwölf is not as natural as people think.”

            Yana and Wilfred started.

            “Zwölf’s dead?” they cried.

            “Oh, yes,” replied the man, or the shadow of a man, quietly. A smile played at the left side of his mouth, and he set the goblet down on the table. “He was found, this evening, hanging in the third cellar, between a farmhouse and a scene from the _Roi de Lahore_. I believe his body is being escorted out right now.”

            The two managers, or rather ex-managers, rose at once and stared strangely at the speaker. They were more excited than they should have been, more excited than anyone need be by the announcement of the suicide of a chief stagehand. Faces whiter than the tablecloth, they looked at each other. At last, Yana made a sign to Messrs. Saxon and van Statten; Wilfred muttered a few words of excuse to the guests; and all four of them went into the managers’ office.

            As they left, the Phantom couldn’t help smirking just a little. He could imagine the scene with perfect clarity: Wilfred and Yana growing more and more agitated as they debated the best way to divulge the news to their successors. They would ask Saxon and van Statten if they knew the man, sitting at the end of the table, who had informed them of Zwölf’s death; and when Harry and Henry answered in the negative, they would look still more concerned. They would take the master keys from their successors’ hands, stare at them for a moment and then advise van Statten and Saxon to have new locks made, with the utmost secrecy, for the rooms, closets, and cabinets that they might wish to have hermetically closed. This would be said in so oddly and funnily a tone that Saxon and van Statten would laugh and ask if there were thieves at the Opera. Yana and Wilfred would reply that there was something much worse—the _Phantom._ Again, the new managers would laugh, feeling sure that they were indulging in some joke that was intended to crown their little entertainment. Then, at the ex-managers’ request, they would become “serious” in order to humor the two older men, even if they didn’t believe everything they were being told about the Opera Ghost.

            The Phantom made a mental note to research as much as he could about the new managers. Right now, there was someone waiting for him back at his underground home; and he didn’t want to leave her on her own for long.

            There was no telling what trouble Rose would find if he left her to her own devices after all—especially if she found his torture chamber.

            In one fluid movement, he had pushed the chair back, brought his feet down from his reclining position, and rose to a standing position. With a little jaunty wave of good-bye to those still at the table, he took off. To those at the table, it appeared as though he’d vanished into thin air.  

* * *

Rose’s eyes slowly blinked open. She raised her head, looked around her surroundings, and found she was in a bed.

 _How did I get here?_ But, as her vision cleared, so did her memory.

_I remember there was mist . . . swirling mist upon a vast glassy lake. There were candles all around, and on the lake there was a boat. And in the boat there was a man . . ._

            Rose pushed back the covers, swung her legs over the side of the bed. She was still in her dress, she noticed, and couldn’t help feeling somewhat grateful for that.

            Her gaze swept around the room one more time, and she froze as it landed on the black shape of the man in the mask, with his arms crossed.

            “Don’t be afraid, Rose,” he said. “You’re in no danger.” _It was the voice!_

            Anger caught up to and equaled her amazement: he’d _drugged_ or hypnotized her or _something_ and led her down here without her consent. He’d _kidnapped_ her! Rose rushed at him, at his mask; and tried to snatch it away, to see the face of the voice that had given her lessons these long past three months.

            Long-fingered, almost skeletal hands gripped her gently by the wrists before she could reach his mask. “Let me rephrase that: You are in no danger as long as you do not touch the mask,” he informed her calmly, coolly—a statement of fact. He knew just how much power he had over her, knew exactly how to handle her. Though his grip on her wrists was gentle, he forced her into a chair. What he did next surprised her: He sank to his knees before her and said nothing more.

            Rose’s anger had faded, only to be replaced by something she didn’t quite recognize—shock, maybe? This time, as her eyes moved around the room, she found herself taking in details: the furniture, the hangings, the candles, the vases and flowers in their baskets—she could almost have told where they came from and what they cost. All of it brought to mind a drawing room as commonplace as anywhere, except this one was in the cellars of the Opera.

            What was it he’d said to her?

              _“Since the moment I first heard you sing, I’ve needed you with me.”_

            The voice, the one she’d recognized under the mask, was still on its knees before her . . . _was a man . . ._

            She didn’t even realize she was crying until she felt the salty wetness on her cheeks.

            The man, still kneeling, seemed to sense the cause of her tears. “It’s true, Rose. I’m not an Angel, nor a ghost, nor a genius—weeellll, okay, I’m a genius; I can’t really help it.” He sobered instantly and looked up, his dark brown eyes boring into her own, so intensely that she had to look away or be lost in them forever. “My name is Theta.”

            What exactly was she supposed to say? “It’s nice to meet you”?

            After a few moments of silence, during which neither of them said anything, Theta rose to his feet, extended a hand to her. “Come, we must return,” he said, in that accent she still couldn’t place. “Those two fools who run my theater will be missing you.”

            Rose found herself accepting his hand for the third time that night. He studied her for what felt like eternity but was only maybe half a minute or less. Then he grinned a maniac grin—she couldn’t help noticing the way his eyes sparkled when he did that, the way his thick chestnut hair appeared to defy gravity—and said one word, even as he started pulling her along behind him: “Run!”


	5. Chapter 4

In the managers’ office, Harold Saxon and Henry van Statten were fighting to keep straight faces as Wilfred Mott and M. Yana filled them in on the Opera Ghost. They had heard vague rumors, had been there when Sarah Jane found the note supposedly left by the Phantom—but surely it had to be a joke. What sort of a ghost needed a salary of twenty thousand francs?

            “We would not have spoken to you of the Phantom,” Wilfred was explaining, “if we had not received formal orders from the Phantom himself to ask you to be pleasant to him and to grant any request that he might make.”

            “It’s a bit late for that,” van Statten commented dryly. “We were there when Sarah Jane Smith found that note, or don’t you remember?” He spared a sideways glance at his partner. In his student days Harry had acquired a reputation for practical joking—sometimes taking them a step or two too far—and he seemed to relish the dish now being served up to him in his turn, not missing a single morsel of it even though the seasoning was a little gruesome due to the death of Zwölf. Harry nodded his head briefly while the others spoke. His features assumed the air of a man who bitterly regretted taking over the Opera now that he knew for certain there was a ghost mixed up in the business, but for a brief second there had been something almost like _hunger_ in his eyes. Henry could think of nothing better than to give Harry a (in his manner of thinking) servile imitation of this despairing attitude. However, in spite of all their efforts, they could not stop themselves from bursting into laughter once the ex-managers had finished. For Wilfred and Yana’s part, they thought their successors had gone mad, as Saxon and van Statten had passed straight from the gloomiest state of mind to one of the most insolent merriment.

            The joke, however, had become a little tedious; Henry asked, half-serious and half in jest: “But what does this ghost of yours want?”

            “He mentioned something in the note about a salary and a box,” Harry remembered. “What the hell does a ghost want money for?”

            Instead of answering, Yana went to his desk and returned with a copy of the Opera’s memorandum-book. The memorandum-book began with the familiar words stating that “the management of the Opera shall give to the performance of the National Academy of Music the splendor that becomes the first lyric stage in France” and ended with Clause 98, which said that the privilege would be withdrawn if the manager infringed the conditions stipulated in the memorandum-book. This was then followed by the four conditions.

            The copy M. Yana produced was written in black ink and identical to the one in Messrs. Saxon and van Statten’s possession except for the paragraph in red ink at the end, written in a queer, labored handwriting, as though it had been produced by dipping the heads of matches into the ink—the writing of a child that has never made it beyond the down-strokes and has just learned to join its letters—yet there were instances where it seemed to flow in an almost cursive script. This paragraph ran, word for word, as follows:

            “5. Or if the manager, in any month, delay for more than a fortnight the payment of the allowance which he shall make to the Phantom of the Opera, an allowance of twenty thousand francs a month, say two hundred and forty thousand francs a year.”

            M. Mott pointed with a hesitating finger to this last clause, which Saxon and van Statten had not entirely expected. They had known about the twenty thousand francs and still thought it was some sort of a hoax, but somehow they had not added up the cost of those francs over the course of twelve months. Two hundred and forty thousand francs!

            “Is this all? Does he not want anything else?” Henry asked coldly.

            “Yes, he does,” replied Wilfred.

            He turned through the pages of the memorandum-book until he came to the clause specifying the days on which certain private boxes were to be reserved for the free use of the president of the republic, the ministers, and so on and so forth. At the end of this clause a line had been added, also in red ink:

            “Box Five on the grand tier shall be placed at the disposal of the Opera Phantom for every performance.”

            When the new managers saw this, confirming what they’d already heard, there was nothing else for them to do but rise from their chairs, shake their predecessors warmly by the hand, and congratulate them on thinking up this charming little joke that proved the old French sense of humor was never extinct—or likely to become as such. Van Statten added that he now understood why Messrs. Mott and Yana were retiring from the management of the National Academy of Music: Business was impossible at worst and difficult at best with so unreasonable a ghost.

            “Clearly, two hundred and forty thousand francs are not to be picked up for the asking,” said M. Yana, without moving a single facial muscle. “And have you two considered what the loss over Box Five meant to us? We did not sell it once—not once; and not only that, but we had to return the subscription. It was awful. We really can’t work to keep ghosts! We prefer to go away.”

            “Yes, to . . . London and . . . Australia, wasn’t it?” Saxon asked.

            “Oh yes,” Wilfred said. “Well, we’d better leave you to it.” He stood up.

            Harry, before they could leave the room, said, “You know, it seems to me that you were much too kind to the Phantom. If I had such a troublesome ghost as that, I shouldn’t hesitate to have him arrested . . . maybe tortured.”

            “But how? Where?” Wilfred and Yana cried in chorus. “We have never seen him!”

            “What about when he comes to the box?”

            _“We have never seen him in his box.”_

            “Then sell it.”

            “Sell the Phantom’s box?” Wilfred scoffed. “I’d like to see you try it.”

            When all four of them left the office, Saxon and van Statten had never laughed so much in their lives.

* * *

The first few days the new managers spent at the Opera were given over to the enjoyment of finding themselves the head of so magnificent an enterprise; and they had forgotten all about that curious, fantastic story of the Phantom when an incident—several incidents, actually—occurred that proved to them that the joke—if joke it were—was not over.

            M. Harold Saxon reached his office that morning at eleven o’clock. His secretary, known simply as Osgood, showed him half a dozen letters which she had not opened because they were marked “private”. A few of the letters at once attracted Saxon’s attention not only because the envelope was addressed in red ink, but because he seemed to have seen the writing before. The memory came to him quickly: it was the red hand-writing in which the memorandum-book had been so curiously completed. Recognizing the childish yet sophisticated hand, he opened the letter and read:

 

Dear Mr. Manager:

I am sorry to have to trouble you at a time when you must be so very busy, renewing important engagements, signing fresh ones and generally displaying your excellent taste. I know what you have done for Reinette, Gwen Cooper, and little Amelia Pond and for a few others whose admirable qualities of talent or genius you have suspected.

            Of course, when I use these words, I do not mean to apply them to Reinette Poisson, who sings like a squirt and should never have been allowed to leave the Court of Versailles; nor to Cooper, who owes her success mainly to her figure; nor to little Pond, who dances like a calf in a field. And I am not speaking of Rose Tyler, either, though her genius is certain, whereas your jealousy prevents her from creating any important part. When all is said, you are free to conduct your little business as you think best, are you not?

            All the same, I should like to take advantage of the fact that you have not yet turned Rose Tyler out of doors by hearing her this evening in the part of Siébel, as that of Elissa has been forbidden her since her triumph of the other evening. I will also ask you not to dispose of my box today nor on _the following_ days, for I cannot end this letter without telling you how disagreeably surprised I have been once or twice to hear, on arriving at the Opera, that my box had been sold at the box office, by your orders.

            I did not protest, first, because I dislike scandal, and, second, because I thought that your predecessors Messrs. Mott and Yana, who were always charming to me, had neglected, before leaving, to mention my little fads to you. I have now received a reply from those gentlemen to my letter asking for an explanation, and this reply proves that you know all about my memorandum-book and, consequently, that you are treating me with outrageous contempt. _If you wish to live in peace, you must not begin by taking away my private box._

            You get one warning. That was it.

            Believe me to be, dear Mr. Manager, without prejudice to these little observations,

            Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant,

                        _Phantom of the Opera_

 

            The letter was accompanied by a clipping from the agony-column of the R _evue Théâtrale,_ which ran:

 

Ph. of the O.—There is no excuse for S. and V. We told them and left your memorandum-book in their hands. Kind regards.

 

            M. Harold Saxon had hardly finished reading this letter when M. Henry van Statten entered, carrying one exactly similar. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.

            “They are keeping up the joke,” said M. Saxon, “but I don’t call it funny.”

            Van Statten was not amused either. “Do they imagine that, because they have been managers of the Opera, we’re going to let them have a box for an indefinite period?”

            “I am not in the mood to be laughed at for long,” Harry grumbled.

            Henry shrugged. “It’s harmless enough for now. What is it they really want? A box for tonight?”

            Saxon told Osgood to send Box Five on the grand tier to Messrs. Mott and Yana, if it was not sold; it was not. It was sent off to them.

            Clearly, both Saxon and van Statten had forgotten that their predecessors were out of the country, but that didn’t stop them from trying to sell the Phantom’s box.

            Speaking of the Phantom, his letters had been posted at the Boulevard des Capucines post office, as Henry remarked after examining the envelopes.

            “You see?” said Harry.

            They shrugged their shoulders and regretted that two men of their stature and age should amuse themselves by resorting to such childish tricks.

            “They might have been civil, for all that!” Henry complained. “Did you notice how they treated us with regard to Reinette, Gwen, and little Amy?”

            “They’re jealous, obviously. To think that they went to the expense of an advertisement in the _Revue Théâtrale!_ Have they nothing better to do?”

            “By the way,” Henry noticed, “they seem to be greatly interested in that little Rose Tyler.”

            “You know as well as I do that she has the reputation of being quite good.”

            “Reputations are easily obtained. I have a reputation for knowing all about music, do I not? And I don’t know one key from another.”

            “Don’t be worried: you never had that reputation,” Saxon informed him.

            He then ordered the artists to be shown in, who had, for the past two hours, had been walking up and down outside the doors behind which fame and fortune—or dismissal—awaited them.

            The whole day was spent in discussing, negotiating, signing or canceling contracts; and the two overworked managers went to bed early, without so much as casting a glance at Box Five to see whether M. Mott and M. Yana were enjoying the performance (the box was, of course, empty).

            Next morning, the managers received a card of thanks from the Phantom:

 

Dear Mr. Manager:

            Thanks. Charming evening. Rose was exquisite. Choruses want waking up. Reinette was a splendid commonplace instrument. I will write you soon for the 240,000 francs, or 233,424 fr. 70 c., to be correct. Messrs. Mott and Yana had already sent me the 6,575 fr. 30 c. representing the first ten days of my allowance for the current year; their privileges finished on the evening of the tenth.

            Kind regards.

                        Ph.O.

 

            On the other hand, there was a letter from some of the staff, who had clearly meant it to be from the former managers:

 

Gentlemen:

            We are much obliged for your kind thought of us, but you will easily understand that the prospect of again hearing _Faust_ , pleasant though it is to ex-managers of the Opera, cannot make us forget that we have no right to occupy Box Five on the grand tier, which is the exclusive property of _him_ of whom we spoke to you when we went through the memorandum-book with you for the last time. See Clause 98, final paragraph.

            Accept, gentlemen, etc.

 

            “Oh, those two fools are beginning to annoy me!” Harold Saxon snarled, snatching up the letter.

            Box Five was sold that evening.

            The next morning, Messrs. van Statten and Saxon, on reaching their office, found an inspector’s report relating an incident that had happened the night before, in Box Five. The essential part of the report ran as follows:

 

            I was obliged to call in a municipal guard twice, this evening, to clear Box Five on the grand tier, once at the beginning and once in the middle of the second act. The occupants, who arrived as the curtain rose on the second act, created a regular scandal by their laughter and their ridiculous observations. There were cries of “Hush!” all around them and the whole house was beginning to protest, when the box-keeper came to fetch me. I entered the box and said what I thought was necessary. The people did not seem to me to be in their right mind and they made stupid remarks. I said that, if the noise was repeated, I should be compelled to clear the box. The moment I left, I heard the laughing again, with fresh protests from the house. I returned with a municipal guard, who turned them out. They protested, still laughing, saying they would not go until they had their money back. At last, they became quiet and I allowed them to enter the box again. The laughter at once recommenced; and this time, I had them turned out definitely.

 

            “Send for the inspector,” van Statten ordered Osgood, who had already read the report and marked it with a blue pencil.

            Osgood had foreseen the order and called the inspector at once.

            “Tell us what happened,” Saxon said bluntly.

            The inspector started to splutter and referred with his hands to the report.

            “But what were those people laughing at?” asked van Statten.

            “They must have been dining, sir, and seemed more inclined to lark about than to listen to good music. The moment they entered the box, they came out again and called the box-keeper, who asked them what they wanted. They said, ‘Look in the box; there’s no one there, is there?’ ‘No,’ said the woman. ‘Well,’ said they, ‘when we went in, we heard a voice saying _that the box was taken!_ ’”

            Henry van Statten could not help smiling as he looked at Saxon, but Harry did not smile. He himself had done too much in that way in his time not to recognize, in the inspector’s story, all the marks of one of those practical jokes which begin by amusing and end by enraging the victims. The inspector, to curry favor with a smiling van Statten, thought it best to give a smile too—one that did not bode well for him. Saxon glared at his subordinate, who quickly rearranged his features into a picture of utter consternation.

            “However, when the people arrived,” said Harry in a soft voice that was no less deadly, “there was no one in the box, was there?”

            “Not a soul, sir, not a soul! Nor in the box on the right, nor in the box on the left: not a soul, sir, I swear! The box-keeper told me this often enough, which proves that it was all a joke.”

            “Oh, you agree, do you?” said Saxon. “You agree! It’s a joke! And you think it funny, no doubt?”

            “I—”

            “No. No. This isn’t funny. You see, I’m not making myself very clear. Funny is like this.” He grinned. “Not funny is like this.” He frowned. “And right now I’m not like”—he grinned—“I’m like”—he frowned. “So, let’s try this again. _Do you think it funny?”_

            “I think it in very bad taste, sir.”

            “Good answer. And what did the box-keeper say?”

            “Oh, she just said that it was the Phantom of the Opera. That’s all she said!”

            The inspector grinned; but he soon found that he had made a mistake in grinning, for the words had no sooner left his mouth than M. Saxon’s temper exploded.

            “Send for the box-keeper!” he shouted. “Send for her! This minute! This minute! And bring her in to me here! And turn all those people out!”

            The inspector started to protest, but Saxon closed his mouth with an angry order to hold his tongue. Then, when the wretched man’s lips seemed shut forever, the manager commanded him to open them once more.

            “Who is this ‘Phantom of the Opera?’” he snarled.

            By this time, the inspector was incapable of speaking a word. He managed to convey, by a despairing gesture, that he knew nothing about it, or rather that he did not wish to know.

            “Have you ever seen him? Have you seen the Phantom?”

            The inspector, by means of a vigorous shake of the head, denied ever having seen the ghost in question.

            “Very well,” Saxon said coldly.

            The inspector’s eyes started to bug out of his head, as though to ask why the manager had uttered that “very well” in such an ominous tone.

            “I’m going to settle the account of everyone who has not seen him!” explained the manager. “As he seems to be everywhere, I can’t have people telling me that they see him nowhere. I like people to work for me when I employ them!”

            He then paid no further attention to the inspector and discussed various business matters with his acting manager, who had since entered the room. The inspector thought he could leave and was oh so gently and silently sliding toward the door when Harry Saxon nailed him to the floor with a thundering:

            “Stay where you are!”

            Osgood had sent for the box-keeper to the Rue de Provence, close to the Opera, where she was engaged as a portress. She soon made her appearance.

            “And you are?”

            “Sarah Jane Smith. You know me well enough, sir. I gave you a tour on your first day here, remember?”

            “Ah, yes. You’re Ms. Noble’s—”

            “Guardian, yes.”

            He made a vague gesture of acknowledgement. “I don’t really remember her, but that’s no reason, Mme. Smith, why I shouldn’t ask you what happened last night to make you and the inspector call in a municipal guard.”

            “I was just wanting to see you, sir, and talk to you about it, so that you mightn’t have the same unpleasantness as M. Mott and M. Yana—who are both well out of the country by now, if I recall right. They wouldn’t listen to me either, at first, you know.”

            “I’m not asking you about all that; I’m asking what happened last night.”

            Sarah Jane bristled. She’d never been spoken to like that before! She rose as though to leave, gathering up the folds of her skirt with dignity; but, changing her mind, she sat down again and said in a haughty voice, “I’ll tell you what happened. The Phantom was annoyed again!”

            Since Saxon was on the verge of bursting out in rage, van Statten hurriedly escorted his partner to a far corner of the room and conducted the interrogation from there. It appeared that Sarah Jane thought it was quite natural that a voice should be heard to say that a box was taken, when there was nobody in the box. She was unable to explain the phenomenon, which was not new to her, except by the intervention of the Phantom. Nobody could see the Phantom in his box, but all could hear him. She had often heard him; and they could believe her, for she always spoke the truth. They could ask anyone who knew her; they could ask M. Ianto Jones, who had had a leg broken by the Phantom!

            “Uh-huh,” said van Statten, interrupting her. “Did the Phantom break poor Ianto Jones’s leg?”

            Sarah Jane’s eyes widened with astonishment at such ignorance. However, she silently consented to enlighten this poor innocent. The thing had happened in M. Mott and M. Yana’s time, also in Box Five and also during a performance of _Faust_. Mme. Sarah Jane coughed, cleared her throat—it sounded as though she were preparing to sing the whole of Gounod’s score—and began:

            “It was like this, sir. That night, Owen Harper and his lady, the physicians in the Rue Mogador, were sitting in the front of the box, with their great friend Ianto Jones sitting behind Mme. Harper. Mephistopheles was singing”—Sarah Jane here burst into song herself—“ ‘ _Catarina, while you play at sleeping_ ,’ and then Owen heard a voice in his right ear—his wife was on his left—saying, ‘Ha, ha! Tosh’s not playing at sleeping!’ His wife happened to be called Toshinko. So M. Harper turns to the right to see who was talking to him like that. Nobody there! He rubs his ear and asks himself if he’s dreaming. Then Mephistopheles went on with his serenade. . . . I’m not boring you, am I?”

            “No, no, go on.”

            “You are too good,” she said with a smirk. “Well, then, Mephistopheles went on with his serenade”—Sarah Jane burst into song again—“‘ _Saint, unclose thy portals holy and accord the bliss, to a mortal bending lowly, of a pardon-kiss_.’ And then Owen hears again the voice in his right ear, this time saying, ‘Ha, ha! Tosh wouldn’t mind according a kiss to Ianto!’ Then he turns around again, but this time, to the left; and what do you think he sees? Ianto, who had taken his lady’s hand and was covering it with kisses through the little round place in the glove—like this, gentlemen”—rapturously kissing the bit of palm left bare in the middle of her thread gloves. “Then they had a lovely time between them! Bang! Bang! Owen, though he’s small and a bit scrawny, gave two blows to Ianto. There was a great uproar, naturally. People in the house shouted, ‘That will do! Stop them! He’ll kill him!’ Then, at last, Ianto Jones managed to run away.”

            “So, the Phantom had not broken his leg?” van Statten asked.

            “He did break it for him, sir,” Sarah Jane replied haughtily. “He broke it for him on the grand staircase, which he ran down too fast, sir, and it will be long before the poor gentleman will be able to go up it again!”

            “Did the Phantom tell you what he said in M. Harper’s right ear?” asked van Statten, with a gravity he thought exceedingly humorous.

            “No, sir, it was M. Harper himself. So—”

            “But you have spoken to the Phantom, yes?”

            “As I’m speaking to you right now!”

            “And, when the Phantom speaks to you, what does he say?”

            “Well, he tells me to bring him a footstool.”

            This time, Saxon, van Statten, and Osgood the secretary burst out laughing. Only the inspector, warned by experience, was careful not to laugh. Sarah Jane bridled angrily.

            “Instead of laughing,” she said coolly, “you might want to try and find out about it for yourselves.”

            “Find out about what?” asked Henry, who had never been so much amused in his life, save for two nights ago when he and his partner had been informed about the Opera Ghost by the former managers.

            “The Phantom, of course! How stupid are you?”

            That silenced them instantly. Saxon glared at her through narrowed eyes, while van Statten straightened in his chair. Henry asked, at length, “Why would a ghost ask for a footstool? Is the Phantom a woman?”

            “No, the Phantom is a man.”

            “How do you know?”

            “He has a man’s voice, oh, such a lovely man’s voice! This is what happens: When he comes to the Opera, it is usually in the middle of the first act. He gives three little taps on the door of Box Five. The first time I heard those three taps, when I knew there was no one in the box, you can think how puzzled I was. I opened the door, listened, looked; nobody! And then I heard a voice say, ‘Sarah Jane Smith, a footstool, please.’ If you’ll forgive me saying so, it made me feel cold all over and tingly-like. But the voice went on, ‘Don’t be afraid, Sarah Jane. I’m the Phantom of the Opera!’ And the voice was so soft and kind that I hardly felt frightened. _The voice was sitting in the corner chair, on the right, in the front row.”_

            “Was there anyone in the box on the right of Box Five?” asked Van Statten.

            “No. Box Seven and Box Three, the one on the left, were both empty. The curtain had only just gone up.”

            “And what did you do?”

            “Well, I brought the footstool. Of course, it wasn’t for himself he wanted it, but for his lady! But I never heard nor saw her.”

            “Wait, what? So now the Phantom is married?” The two managers’ eyes traveled from Sarah Jane to the inspector, who, standing behind the box-keeper, was waving his arms to attract their attention. He tapped his forehead with a distressful forefinger, to convey his opinion that Sarah Jane Smith was most certainly mad, a piece of pantomime which confirmed M. Saxon in his determination to get rid of an inspector who kept a lunatic in his service. Meanwhile, the lady in question went on about her Phantom, now painting his generosity (and leaving out the darker aspects of his nature):

            “At the end of the performance, he always gives me two francs, sometimes five, sometimes even ten, when he has been many days without coming. Only, since people have begun to annoy him again, he gives me nothing at all.”

            “All right,” van Statten said slowly, “but how does the Phantom manage to give you your two francs?”

            “He leaves them on the little shelf in the box, of course,” Sarah Jane informed him in a tone that said she thought he was an idiot. “I find them with the program, which I always give him. Some evenings, I find flowers in the box, a rose that must have dropped from his lady’s bodice . . . for he brings a lady with him sometimes; one day, they left a fan behind them.”

            “Oh, the ghost left a fan, did he? And what did you do with it?”

            “Well, I brought it back to the box the next night.”

            The inspector cut in here, his voice raised: “You’ve broken the rules. I shall have to fine you, Mme. Smith.”

            “Hold your tongue, you idiot!” Saxon hissed under his breath.

            “You brought back the fan,” van Statten said, encouraging her. “And then?”

            “Well, then, they took it away with them, sir; it was not there at the end of the performance; and in its place they left me a box of English sweets, which I’m very fond of. That’s one of the Phantom’s pretty thoughts.”

            “That will do, Mme. Smith. You may go.”

            When Sarah Jane had bowed herself out, with the dignity that never deserted her, the managers also dismissed the inspector and instructed Kate Lethbridge-Stewart, acting manager, to settle up the inspector’s accounts. Left alone, they then decided to later take a trip to Box Five to check into the little matter themselves.

* * *

Some hours later, the two managers had left behind them the broad staircase that lead from the lobby outside the managers’ offices to the stage and its dependencies, crossed the stage, went out by the subscribers’ door and entered the house through the first little passage on the left. Then they made their way through the front rows of stalls and looked at Box Five on the grand tier. They could not see it well, partly because it was half in darkness and partly because great covers were flung over the red velvet of all the boxes’ ledges.

            Saxon and van Statten were almost alone in the huge, gloomy house; and a great silence surrounded them, pressed in on them. It was the time when most of the stagehands had gone out for a drink. The staff had left the boards for the moment, leaving a scene half set. A few rays of light—a wan, sinister light—that seemed to have been stolen from an expiring luminary or lamp, fell through some opening or other upon an old tower that raised its pasteboard battlements on the stage; everything, in this deceptive light, adopted a fantastic shape. In the orchestra stalls, the thick white fabric that covered them looked like an angry sea whose frothy waves had been suddenly rendered stationary by a secret order from Neptune or Poseidon, and Messrs. Van Statten and Saxon were the shipwrecked mariners amid this motionless turmoil of a calico sea. They made for the left boxes, plowing their way like sailors who have gone overboard or otherwise left their ship and try to struggle to shore. The eight great polished columns stood up in the dusk like so many huge piles supporting the threatening, crumbling, big-bellied cliffs whose layers were represented by the circular parallel waving lines of the balconies of the grand, first and second tiers of boxes. At the top, right on top of the cliff, lost in M. Lenepveu’s copper ceiling, figures grinned and grimaced, laughed and jeered at the managers’ distress . . . yet these figures were usually very serious: Isis, Amphitrite, Hebe, Pandora, Psyche, Thetis, Pomona, Daphne, Clytie, Galatea and Arethusa—yes, Arethusa herself and Pandora, made known to all by her box (though technically it was a _pithos_ ) looked down upon the two new managers of the Palais Garnier, who ended by clutching at some piece of wreckage and from there stared silently at Box Five on the grand tier.

            Maybe it was the semi-darkness playing tricks on their minds, but as they peered into the gloom surrounding Box Five, both Saxon and van Statten saw a shape in the box. Without either of them realizing it, their fingers intertwined as each spontaneously seized the other’s hand. They stayed like that for a few minutes, motionless, their eyes fixed on the same point . . . but the figure had already disappeared.

            “Did you see that?” Henry asked as they walked out into the lobby.

            “See what?”

            “The death’s-head resting on the box’s ledge, that’s what!”

            Harry frowned slightly. “That’s not what I saw. I saw an old woman.”

            Henry rolled his eyes. “Guess I know where your mind’s at, then.”

            “Oh, shut up. It was probably just an illusion,” Harry snapped, heading over to the door that led to Box Five. Henry followed, mouth twitching in amusement.

            Once inside, they found that the box looked just like all the other grand tier boxes, with nothing to distinguish it from any of the others. The two managers, ostensibly highly amused and silently laughing at each other, set about with their search: They moved the furniture of the box, lifted the cloths and the chairs and particularly examined the armchair in which “the man’s voice” used to sit. They just saw that it was a respectable armchair, with no magic about it. Altogether, the box was the most ordinary one in the world, with its red hangings, its chairs, its carpet and its ledge covered in red velvet. After feeling the carpet in the most serious manner possible and discovering nothing more there than anything else, they went down to the corresponding box on the pit tier below.

            They found nothing worth mentioning there, either.

            “This is insane!” Saxon, irritated, spun around in a circle and vented his feelings by kicking at the nearest wall. In the next few seconds, he was hopping up and down on one leg, wincing, while he held his injured foot in his hands.

            “Did that help?” Henry asked.

            “No.”

            “Did it make you feel better?”

            “Yes.”

            “Does it hurt?”

            “Yes.” Saxon hopped over to the nearest bench and sat down, taking off his shoe and massaging his injured tarsals and metatarsals. “Those people are making fools of all of us!” he informed his partner angrily. “It will be _Faust_ on Saturday, and we are both going to see the performance from Box Five on the grand tier! Let’s see how this Phantom deals with that!”

            Van Statten, though he would never say it out loud to his partner, was starting to have a sinking, nagging feeling that this whole affair would not end well.


	6. Chapter 5

After returning from the Phantom’s (no, Theta’s) underground lair, Rose kept a low profile during the performances of the next two weeks. She went back to the minor roles, occasionally taking part as a backup dancer—an extra. Whenever Jack called on her, she made herself scarce: she wasn’t sure of her feelings for him, what exactly his intentions were (though he’d made it clear he intended to court her), and . . . if she was honest, she didn’t want Theta to find out about her childhood friend. While he hadn’t hurt her—he’d barely touched her—she suspected he wouldn’t show the same courtesy to Jack. He was her Angel as much as he was the Phantom; could the two even be separated?

            During those two weeks after her return, Rose continued to receive voice lessons from him in her dressing room.

            On Thursday, two days before the Opera House was set to put on its second performance of _Faust_ , he came for her again.

            She wasn’t seen by anyone in the Opera for the next two days. Her disappearance went unnoticed until Saturday.

* * *

Saturday morning, the two managers arrived in their office to find two more notes addressed to them. Upon seeing the folded parchment with wax seals, Saxon’s features twisted into a scowl and van Statten rolled his eyes. After exchanging a brief glance, each picked up his letter.

            Saxon’s scowl deepened as he read the words scrawled on the parchment:

 

Harry, just a brief reminder: My salary has not been paid. Send it case of the ghost by return of post, if you would. Oh, and no one likes a debtor, so it would be in everyone’s best interests that you obey my orders.

            _Ph.O._

            _P.S._ Why do you insist on casting Reinette when she’s seasons past her prime? We were hardly bereft when she was taken ill on the gala night. That wasn’t too rude of me, was it? If so, good. Later, ta.

 

            Saxon resisted the urge to crumple the note into a ball and glanced over at his partner’s letter. It was identical, save for the name of the addressee. Van Statten, who had reached the end of his note, smirked slightly, his eyes meeting Harry’s briefly.

            “Just who the hell does this ghost think he is?” Harry snarled.

            Henry shrugged. “The owner of the Palais Garnier, apparently. Well, not _owner_ exactly, but—” He fell silent at Saxon’s cold glare.

            “In case you hadn’t noticed,” said Harry sarcastically, “he’s been mocking us and our position ever since we arrived!”

            “I had noticed,” Henry said dryly, “but thanks for spelling it out, Harry.”

            Saxon ignored the deadpan comment. “He’s insane!”

            “What, even more so than you? I didn’t think that was possible.”

            Van Statten’s partner shot him another withering glare, but apparently decided the American’s remark didn’t deserve a retort. Instead, Saxon said, “Whoever this Opera Ghost is, he’s clearly enjoying himself: terrorizing patrons, extorting our money, making fools out of us and Reinette . . .”

            “Not to mention he probably killed our chief stagehand.”

            “Yes, there is that. It doesn’t bother you?”

            “Not particularly.” Van Statten shrugged. “A chief stagehand is easily replaceable.”

            “True.”

            The door behind them opened, and in came Kate Lethbridge-Stewart. “JacksonLake would like to see you two,” she said. “He says his business is urgent and he seems very upset.”

            “Who’s Lake?” Saxon asked.

            “Your stud-groom, sir.”

            “What do you mean, he’s my stud-groom?” The two managers exchanged puzzled glances.

            “Exactly that. There are several grooms at the Opera, and JacksonLake is at the head of them.”

            “What does this groom do?”

            “He has the chief management of the stable.”

            “Stable? What stable?”

            “Yours, sir, the stable of the Opera.”

            Both managers blinked in surprise. “We have a stable at the Opera?” van Statten said. “Where?”

            “It’s in the cellars, on the Rotunda side. You should probably know that it’s a very important department; we have twelve horses.”

            “What do you need twelve horses for?” Saxon asked.

            “Well,” Kate explained, “we want trained horses for the processions in the _Juive,_ the _Profeta_ , and so on; horses ‘used to the boards’, so to speak. It’s the grooms’ business to teach them, and MonsieurLake is very good. He used to manage Naismith’s stables, you know.”

            “Okay, but what does he want?”

            Kate’s expression remained mild. “I don’t know, but I’ve never seen him in a state like this.”

            Again, the two managers exchanged glances; then van Statten waved a hand. “He can come in.”

            JacksonLake came in carrying a riding whip, tapping it—if not full-out striking it—on his right boot in an irritated manner.

            “Good morning, M. Lake,” said Saxon, mildly impressed despite himself. “What is the nature of your visit? Or should I ask ’to what do we owe the honor of your presence’?”

            “Mr. Manager, I have come to ask you to get rid of the whole stable.”

            “What, get rid of the horses?”

            “No, the stable hands.”

            “How many stable hands do you have?”

            “Six, and that’s two too many.”

            Kate interrupted, “There are ’places’ created and fitted upon us by the undersecretary for fine arts. They are filled by protégées of the government and if you’d like I could . . .”

            “I don’t care about the government,” Saxon snapped. “We don’t need more than four hands for twelve horses!”

            “Eleven,” Jackson said, correcting him.

            “Twelve.”

            “No, eleven.”

            “But Kate told me you had twelve horses.”

            “I did, but now I have only eleven since Arthur was stolen from me.” _Again_ , he added silently—though he couldn’t be sure if the pale stallion _had_ been stolen the first time he’d disappeared; perhaps he’d let himself out of his stall after one of the men forgot to latch it properly (and that first time had been late at night, not early in the morning).

            “Arthur’s been stolen?” cried the acting-manager. “The white horse in the _Profeta_?”

            “Well, there aren’t two Arthurs,” the head groom said dryly. “I was ten years at Naismith’s, have never seen another horse like him in all my time, and can assure you that there are not two Arthurs. And yes, he’s been stolen.”

            “How?” van Statten asked.

            “I don’t know, sir. Nobody does. That’s why I’ve come to ask you to sack the whole stable.”

            “What do your stablemen say?”

            “Oh, all sorts of nonsense. Some accuse the supers; others pretend that it’s the acting-manager’s doorkeeper . . .”

            “Say what, now?” said Kate incredulously.

            “But who do _you_ think it is?” van Statten asked JacksonLake. “Surely you must have some idea.”

            “Oh, yes, I do,” Jackson said gravely. “There’s no doubt in my mind.” Walking up to the two managers, he whispered, “It’s that damned Phantom who did the trick!”

            Saxon rolled his eyes in an aggravated manner. “Does _everyone_ in this place believe in the Phantom?!”

            “Well, isn’t it natural, after what I saw?”

            “And what _did_ you see?”

            “Clear as day, I saw a black shadow riding a white horse identical to Arthur.”

            “And did you run after them?”

            “Of course I did, shouting, but they were too fast for me and disappeared into the darkness of the underground gallery.”

            Harold Saxon rose. “That will do, MonsieurLake. You can go. We will lodge a complaint against _the Phantom_.”

            “And sack my stable?”

            “Oh of course. Good day to you.”

            After JacksonLake left, Saxon turned to van Statten and Kate; the two fought the urge to shrink back under the force of his glare.

            “Take care of his idiotic account at once.”

            “He’s a friend of the government representative’s!” Kate protested.

            “And he takes his vermouth at Cybus with Hartigan, Lumic, and Winters,” added van Statten. “We’ll have the whole press against us! He’ll tell the story of the Phantom, and everyone will be laughing at our expense. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather be dead than ridiculed.” (Not that he was planning on dying anytime soon.)

            “All right then, don’t say any more about it,” was Saxon’s cool reply.

            At that moment, the door opened. It must have been deserted by its usual Cerberus as the Viscount Jack Harkness stormed in, his body tense. Kate took the opportunity to slip outside the room; her exit went unnoticed by the managers and viscount.

            “Where is she?” Jack demanded.

            “Who, Reinette?” asked van Statten, naming the first woman performer who came to mind. Considering Reinette was still the prima donna, it _was_ a somewhat logical conclusion.

            “No, I mean Miss Tyler. Now, where is she?”

            Saxon pulled a face, then schooled it into an affronted expression. “Well, how would we know?”

            Jack bristled. “It’s _your_ opera house, isn’t it?”

            “That’s apparently up for debate,” van Statten muttered under his breath.

            Jack didn’t appear to hear him. “I want an answer.” He held out a folded piece of paper to the managers. “I take it that you sent me this note?”

            “Of course not!” Saxon scoffed.

            “Don’t look at us!” protested van Statten.

            The viscount’s angry demeanor faded. “She’s not with you, then?”

            “Obviously not,” said Saxon dryly. “You can look around if you like, but we’re as in the dark as you are.”

            “No kidding,” van Statten murmured. “We didn’t even know she was gone until you came in here.”

            “Oh, don’t argue,” said Jack. He held out the paper again. “Isn’t this the letter you wrote?”

            “And what is it that we’re meant to have written?” asked van Statten as his partner took the note from Jack’s hand. Opening it, Saxon read, “‘Do not fear for Miss Tyler. The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again.’” He handed it back to Jack, who asked, “If you didn’t send it, then who did?”

            Neither manager had an answer for him.

 * * *

At the same time the managers were conversing with themselves and then with JacksonLake, Reinette Poisson was in her own small house in the Rue du Fauborg St.-Honoré, reading her letters in bed after having ordered her maid to bring them.

            One, written in red ink in a clumsy hand with an anonymous sender, had a distinctly threatening tone and took away her appetite for breakfast. It was not the first letter of its kind she had received, but she had never had one couched in such threatening terms. Pushing back her chocolate, she sat up in bed and thought hard.

            She knew full well that she was the star of the opera, and naturally, there were thousands of jealous female performers who would wish to discredit her—any one of them could be a secret enemy who had sworn to ruin here. There was a plot being hatched against her, she imagined, a cabal that would come to a head one of these days, but she was not the woman to be intimidated.

            If there was a conspiracy at all, it was led by Reinette herself against Rose, who had no suspicion of it. Reinette had never been able to forgive Rose for the triumph the English girl had received when taking her place at a moment’s notice. When Reinette had head of the praise and astounding reception bestowed upon her understudy, she’d instantly recovered from an incipient bronchitis attack and spent the rest of the night in her room sulking against the management. She’d also lost he slightest inclination to shirk her duties as lead soprano; and since the gala night she worked with all her determination to smother her rival, enlisting the services of several influential friends to persuade the managers not to give Rose another change to triumph. Certain newspapers that had begun to wax lyrical about Rose’s talent now wrote only about Reinette’s fame. As a final part of her strategy, in the theater itself, the beautiful and celebrated yet heartless and soulless diva made scandalous, scathing remarks about Rose and proceeded to try and make her life hell through endless minor unpleasant, petty tricks.

            She was rather successful, if she did say so herself.

            Still, there was that note . . .

            Mouth twisted in a sneer, Reinette left her bed; she then called for her maid to help her dress and, when she was clothed for the day, she departed angrily for the Palais Garnier.

            _We’ll see about that!_ Reinette thought determinedly, her mind still on the note. Already she had an idea of who had sent it.

            Picking up Matt on her way to the managers’ office certainly didn’t hurt her cause, either. If anything, she was grateful for his support.

* * *

Jack had just finished asking the managers who had sent the note in his possession, if not they, when the doors burst open and in walked a fuming Reinette Poisson with Matthew Elf—lead tenor and her lover—right on her heels.

            “Where is he?” she demanded.

            Saxon didn’t seem at all fazed by her entrance. “Welcome back,” he commented.

            The diva ignored him. “Your precious patron—where is he?”

            Jack sighed. “What is it _now_?”

            “I have your letter,” Reinette informed him, “and it’s one that I rather resent.”

            Everyone in the room looked at Jack. “Did you send it?” asked van Statten.

            Jack scoffed. “Hardly,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Or you rather have me say ‘Of course not!’?”

            Saxon’s expression turned thoughtful as he considered it. “Well .  . .” He shrugged. “Sending notes really doesn’t seem like your style.”

            “So you didn’t send it?” Matt asked Jack.

            This time, the viscount bristled. “Of course I didn’t!” he snapped, his American drawl now hard and irritable.

            Van Statten held up his hands in a “time out” gesture. “What’s going on?”

            Reinette ignored him, taking the note she’d received earlier from her coat pocket. “You dare to tell me that this isn’t the letter you sent?” And she thrust the paper at Jack’s chest.

            “What is it I’m meant to have sent?” Curious now, he took the proffered paper and read, “‘Your days at the Palais Garnier are numbered. Rose Tyler shall be singing on your behalf tonight. Should you attempt to take her place, you must be prepared for a great misfortune at the moment when you open your mouth to sing . . . A misfortune worse than death.’” His expression unreadable, Jack folded up the paper and handed it back to Reinette, who refused. Matt took it instead.

            Van Statten scowled. “I don’t know about you,” he said in an undertone to his partner, “but there’s far too many notes for my taste.”

            “And most of them about this _precious_ Rose,” Saxon agreed.

            “All we’ve heard since we’ve came is Miss Tyler’s name,” they said in unison.

            Sarah Jane suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Miss Tyler has returned,” she announced.

            “No worse for the wear as far as we’re concerned,” Saxon said.

            “Where is she now?” asked van Statten.

            “In her room,” Sarah Jane said, “alone. She needed rest.”

            “May I see her?” Jack asked.

            Sarah Jane shook her head. “No. She will see no one.”

            “Will she sing?” Reinette and Matt wanted to know.

            Sarah Jane studied them for a moment, a small smile on her face. “Here, I have a note.” She reached into her pocket and retrieved it.

            “Let me see it!” the others cried, rushing forward. At Sarah Jane’s reproving look, they stopped in their tracks. It was Harold Saxon who ended up holding the note.

            “‘Gentlemen,’” he read, “‘so it is to be war between us? Fine. I have now sent you several notes and letters of the most amiable nature detailing how my Opera House is to be run. You have ignored my orders . . .’”

            It seemed that another, unfamiliar male voice had joined Saxon’s, and when the manager stopped reading, the disembodied voice continued:

            “. . . I shall give you one last chance. Rose Tyler has returned to you, and I am anxious that her career should progress. Therefore, the part of Marguerite shall be sung this evening by Rose. Never mind about Reinette; she will be ill—or, at the very least, in the role of the page boy. The role which Miss Tyler plays calls for charm and appeal. The role of the page boy is silent which makes my casting, in a word, ideal.

            “I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in Box Five, which _will_ be kept empty.

            “Also, I absolutely insist upon the good and loyal services of Mme. Smith, my box-keeper, whom you will reinstate immediately. Let me know by a letter handed to Sarah Jane, who will see that it reaches me, that you accept, as your predecessors did, the conditions in my memorandum-book relating to my monthly allowance.  I will inform you later how you are to pay it to me.

            “Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your wildest imagination will occur. You will give _Faust_ in a house with a curse upon it. Take my advice and be warned in time.

            “I remain, gentlemen, your humble and obedient servant.

            “O.G.”

            Then the voice was gone.

            There was a stunned silence for a couple moments; and then Reinette, her pretty features twisted into an ugly scowl, exclaimed angrily, “Rose! It’s all a ploy to help that little brat!”

            _Oh, what ever next?_ thought van Statten, while his partner silently raged, _This is insane!_

            Reinette pointed an accusing finger at Jack. “I know who sent this! The viscount, her lover!”

            “Oh, yeah, sure.” Jack couldn’t keep the sarcasm from his voice. “I sent you an anonymous threatening letter, sent another one to the managers pretending to be this Phantom, and then sent one to myself telling me not to worry about a certain missing singer because she’s under the protection of the ‘Angel of Music’ and I shouldn’t even try to see her again. Explain to me how that makes any sense.”

            Reinette narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

            “Madame—,” van Statten began.

            “This is only a joke,” Saxon said, trying to reassure her.

            “—this changes nothing.”

            “You are our star—”

            “—and always will be.”

            “We don’t take orders,” said Saxon with a thin-lipped smile. “Miss Tyler will be the page boy—the _silent_ role—tonight and _you_ , Reinette, will be playing the lead.”

            Reinette sniffed haughtily and raised her chin. “Stop trying to appease me; it’s useless.” She started to turn her back and froze at Saxon’s sly, “Ah, but if you don’t, we will be forced to give the role of Marguerite to Rose. You don’t want that, do you?”

            “I—”  
            “Think of your muse, the queues lining up ’round the theatre, all of your adoring supporters,” Matt urged her. “You don’t want to let them down, do you? They’re here to see _you_ , not that little ingénue flower.”

            She looked into his pale green eyes—eyes that could be young and laughing one moment, hard and old the next, sometimes at the same time—and found herself reassured in what she saw there. Reinette nodded, turned back to the mangers. “All right, I’ll do as you say and sing the role of Marguerite tonight.” Anything to keep that little upstart Rose Tyler from gaining more admirers. Besides, she had a plan of her own for tonight. “Good day to you, sirs.”

            With that, both Reinette and Matt were gone. When Jack and Sarah Jane made no move to leave, Saxon dismissed them with “What are you two still doing here? You may go,” and a wave of his hand.

            Not wanting to antagonize the managers further, the viscount and box-keeper made their leave, both of them anxious about tonight’s performance.

* * *

Reinette, back at home, spent what remained of the morning collecting all her supporters. She told them that she was threatened at that evening’s performance with a plot organized by Rose and declared that they must play a trick on the child by filling the house with her, Reinette’s supporters. After all, she had no lack of them, had she? She was relying on them to hold themselves prepared for any eventuality and to silence the adversaries if, as she feared, they created a disturbance.

            Even knowing she was slated to play Marguerite that night did nothing to ease her paranoia.

            It was five o’clock when the post brought a second anonymous note in the same hand as the first. It was short and read simply: _You have a bad cold. If you are wise, you will see that it is madness to try to sing tonight._

            Reinette sneered, rolled her shoulders, and sang a major scale to reassure herself.

            Her friends were faithful to her promise. They were all at the Opera that night, looking around in vain for the fierce competition they were instructed to suppress. So far, it seemed, the only unusual thing in the theater was the presence of the managers in Box Five. Reinette’s friends thought it was possible the two managers had heard of the proposed disturbance and they had determined to be in the house so as to stop it then in there. In reality, van Statten and Saxon knew nothing of the supposed conspiracy and were thinking only of their Phantom.

            “. . . Vain! In vain do I call, through my vigil weary, on creation and its Lord! Never reply will break the silence dreary! No sign! No single word!”

            Famous baritone James McCrimmon had only just finished Doctor Faust’s first appeal to the powers of darkness when Harold Saxon, who was sitting in the Phantom’s own chair, the front seat on the right, leaned over to his partner and asked him jokingly, “Well, has the Phantom whispered anything in your ear yet?”

            “Don’t be in such a hurry,” Henry replied. “The performance has just started and you know the Phantom doesn’t appear until the middle of the first act.”

            Nothing happened during the first act; Reinette’s friends weren’t surprised, because Marguerite does not sing in this act. As for the managers, they looked at each other when the curtain fell.

            “That’s act one over and done with,” said van Statten.

            “Yes, the Phantom is late.”

            “Still, it’s not a bad turnout,” Henry said, “for ‘a house with a curse upon it.’”

            Harry smiled and pointed to a slim, brunette woman dressed in black sitting in a stall in the middle of the auditorium with a man in a broadcloth frock-coat on either side of her.

            “Who on earth are those?” van Statten asked.

            “‘Those’ are my concierge Harriet Jones, her friend, and her assistant.”

            “Did you give them their tickets, at least?”

            “What sort of a man do you take me for? No, don’t answer that. Yes, I did. My concierge had never been to the Opera—this is the first time—and, as she is now going to come every night, I wanted her to have a good seat before she started spending her time showing other people to theirs.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “Oh, I just persuaded her to come and take Sarah Jane Smith’s place. I am rather confident in her abilities, and, well . . .” He shrugged, smiled unpleasantly. “I want to see if Box Five will continue to spook the natives if we have someone other than that crazy bat taking charge of it.”

            “Mmm. I see. You know, Sarah Jane is going to lodge a complaint against you.”

            “With whom? The Phantom?”

            Until Saxon mentioned the Phantom, van Statten had almost forgotten about him. The mysterious person in question, however, did nothing to prove his existence to the managers for the second act. They had made note of it for the second time when the box door opened and in rushed the startled stage manager.

            “What’s the matter?” both managers asked, amazed at seeing him there at such a time when he should have been backstage.

            “It seems there’s a plot got up by Rose Tyler’s friends against Reinette Poisson. Reinette’s furious.”

            “What?!” Yet it explained some of Reinette’s behavior earlier that day, why she had thought her note came from the Viscount Jack Harkness . . .

            The curtains rose on the carnival scene, cutting off further discussion, and Saxon motioned for the stage manager to go away. When the two were alone again, van Statten leaned over to Saxon and asked, “Miss Tyler has friends, then?”

            “Yes, she does—apart from the viscount, of course.”

            “Who else?”

            Saxon glanced across at a box on the grand tier containing not one but two men.

            “Comte Hart?”

            “Yes. He spoke to me in her favor with such warmth that, if I hadn’t known he was a friend of Gwen Cooper’s . . .”

            “Really? Huh. Take a look at his brother next to him. The viscount looks rather ill, wouldn’t you say?”

            Below, the stage rang with happy song:

            “Red or white liquor, coarse or fine! What can it matter, so we have wine?”

            Citizens, soldiers, students, girls and matrons whirled light-heartedly before the inn with the figure of Dionysus for a sign. Siébel made her entrance. Rose looked rather flattering in her boy’s clothes; and Reinette’s friends expected to hear her greeted with an ovation that would have enlightened them to the intentions of her friends, but nothing happened.

            On the other hand, when Marguerite crossed the stage and sang the two lines allotted her in this second act (“No, my lord, not a lady am I, nor yet a beauty,/And do not need an arm to help me on my way.”), Reinette was received with enthusiastic applause. It was so completely unexpected and uncalled for that those who knew nothing about the rumors looked at each other and asked what was happening.

            The second act also passed without incident. Naturally, those in the know said, “Of course, it will be in the third act.”

             Some who seemed to be better informed than the rest declared that the “row” would begin with the ballad of the _King of Thule_ and rushed to the subscribers’ entrance to warn Reinette. The managers left Box Five during intermission to find out more about the cabal that the stage manager had spoken of, but they soon returned to their seats shrugging and treating the whole affair as ridiculous and hare-brained.

            Upon entering Box Five, the first thing they saw was a box of English sweets sitting on the little shelf of the ledge. Who had put it there? None of the box-keepers they asked knew. They then went back and found, next to the box of sweets on the shelf, an opera glass. Van Statten and Saxon looked at each other, found no inclination to laugh. Everything Sarah Jane had told them played in their memory . . . and then . . . and then . . . there was a curious draft of cold air around them, only them . . . Uneasy now, they sat down in silence.

            The scene now represented Marguerite’s garden, and Rose was onstage.

            “Gentle flow’rs in the dew, be message from me . . .”

            As she sang those first two lines with her bunch of roses and lilacs in hand, Rose raised her head, saw the Vicomte Harkness in his box; from that moment, her voice faltered, seemed less sure, less crystal-clear than usual. Something seemed to deaden and dull her singing. . . .

            “Strange,” remarked Lynda, one of Reinette’s friends who was listening backstage. “The other day she was doing just fine and now she’s simply bleating. She’s got no experience, no training.”

            “Gentle flow’rs, lie ye there and tell her from me . . .”

            Jack covered his face with his hands and rested his elbows on his knees, unable to hear any more. His half-brother the count, beside him, picked absent-mindedly at a button on his coat and frowned. Normally he did not show his inner emotions. For the outwardly cold and aloof count to betray his feelings with visual cues, he had to be extremely angry, upset, or both—and in this case, it was the former. He’d watched his half-brother try and court Rose for two weeks, almost three now, only for her to refuse to see him each time, to tell Jack she could not see him or his brother . . .

            “Would she but deign to hear me and with one smile to cheer me . . .”

            “That little minx!” the count growled.

            He wondered what she wanted, what she was hoping for. Rose was a virtuous girl; rumor said she had no friend, no protector of any sort . . .

            Jack, peering out at the stage from between his fingers, couldn’t help but flash back to the anonymous note he’d received earlier, about Rose and her Angel of Music. _“Make no attempt to see her again . . .”_

            There were thunders of applause, and Reinette made her entrance.

            “I wish I could but know who was he that addressed me, if he was noble, or, at least, what his name is . . .”

            When Marguerite had finished the ballad of the _King of Thule_ , she was loudly cheered and again when she came to the end of the jewel song:

            “Ah, the joy of past compare these bright jewels to wear! . . .”

            Certain of herself, certain of her friends in the audience and backstage, certain of her voice and her success, and fearing nothing, Reinette flung herself into her part with no modesty or restraint. She was no longer Marguerite, she was Carmen. Her efforts had her applauded all the more; and her début duo with _Faust_ seemed to bring her a new success when suddenly . . . 

            “Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?” an angry, male voice thundered throughout the theater.

 **“** He’s here: the Phantom of the Opera!” Donna cried, terrified. Her mum had told her stories about him to keep her in line . . .

            Rose paled. “It’s him,” she said quietly, feeling dread curl in the pit of her stomach. He’d come to take her away _again_ . . .

            Reinette turned on her rival. “Your part is silent, you little toad!” she hissed. 

            Theta, from his hiding place, heard her and smiled. _Thank you for the idea._ **“** A toad, madam?” he murmured. “Perhaps it is _you_ who are the toad. . . .”

            As soon as everyone calmed down, the play went on. Faust was down on one knee, imploring to Marguerite, “Let me gaze on the form below me, while from yonder ether blue look how the star of eve, bright and tender, lingers o’er me, to love thy beauty, too!”

            Marguerite replied, “Oh, how strange! Like a spell does the evening bind me! And a deep languid charm I feel without alarm with its melody enwind me and all my heart subdue.”

            Then, at that very moment . . . “Cro- _ack_!”

            Reinette stopped, bewildered. Her consternation was reflected on every face in the audience; up in their box, the managers could not suppress an exclamation of surprise and horror. Everyone felt the thing was not natural, that there was witchcraft behind it: the toad smelt of brimstone. Poor, despairing, wretched, crushed Reinette!

            Dead silence . . . and then there was a great uproar. Everyone knew how perfect an instrument Reinette’s voice was; if it had happened to anyone other than her, she would have been hooted offstage. Since this was _Reinette_ , there were no cries of anger, only of horror and dismay—the sort of dismay felt by men if they had witnessed the catastrophe that broke the arms of the Venus de Milo. Even then, they would have seen . . . and understood.

            But here, _here_ in the Paris Opera House, that toad was incomprehensible! So much so that, after some seconds spent asking herself if she had really heard that note, that sound, that _infernal noise_ issue from her throat, Reinette tried to convince herself that it was not so; she was the victim of an illusion, an illusion of the ear, and it was not a treacherous act on the part of her voice.

            Meanwhile, in Box Five, van Statten and Saxon had turned even paler than usual. The air around them had suddenly turned oppressively heavy. Unease curled unseen ’round them, turned van Statten’s forehead wet with perspiration and caused Saxon’s hair to stand on end. Yes, the Phantom was there around them, behind them, beside them. They could feel his presence without seeing him, heard and felt his breath on the back of their necks—close, close, close, so close to them! There were three people in the box now; they were certain of it. They shivered, thought of running away . . . and dared not. The managers dared not move or exchange a word, for fear of alerting the Phantom that they knew he was there.

            When the croak happened, their joint exclamation of surprise and horror was heard all over the house. Feeling as though they were smarting under the Phantom’s attacks, they leaned over the edge of their box—no, _the Phantom_ ’s box—and stared at Reinette as if they did not recognize her. She must have given a signal for some catastrophe; there was no other explanation—and they were still waiting. The Phantom had warned them it would come, that the house had a curse upon it, and they had not listened.

            In the silence that followed, Saxon’s stifled voice was heard calling to Reinette, “Well, get on with it!”

            No, Reinette did not go on. Bravely, she started again at the fatal line at the end of which the toad had appeared.

            An awful silence had once more descended, with Reinette’s voice alone filling the resounding house:

            “I feel without alarm . . .”

            (The audience also felt, but not without alarm . . .)

            “I feel without alarm . . . I feel without alarm— _cro-ack!_ —with its melody enwind me— _cro-ack!_ —and all my heart sub— _cro-ack_!”

            At the sound of the toad starting afresh, the house broke into a wild tumult. The two managers collapsed in their chairs and dared not turn around: they didn’t have the strength.  A mad, cackling laugh echoed throughout the room over the audience. Then, at last, the managers distinctly heard _his_ voice in their right ears—the impossible voice, the mouthless voice—saying, “ _She is singing tonight to bring down the chandelier!”_

            As one, the managers looked up and cried out. The immense mass of the chandelier was slipping down, coming toward them, at the call of that fiendish disembodied voice. Released from its hook, it plunged from the ceiling and came crashing down into the middle of the stalls amid a thousand shouts of terror. A mass rush for the door followed.

            Several were wounded, and one person was killed. The chandelier had smashed down upon the head of Harriet Jones, Mr. Saxon’s concierge who had come to the Opera that night for the first time in her life, the one whom her boss had appointed to succeed Sarah Jane, the Phantom’s box-keeper, in her functions. She died instantly.

            The next morning, a newspaper appeared with the heading “Two Hundred Tons on the Head of a Concierge”.

            That was her sole epitaph!


	7. Chapter 6

In the mad rush of the audience for the doors and the Opera crew’s own dash for safety Rose lost sight of both Reinette and Jack. Close to panic herself, she spun in a circle, her eyes flitting from one terrified face to the next as she looked for her rival and childhood friend.

            On the other side of the stage, she caught a glimpse of spiky brown hair, a white half-mask. When she looked again, it was gone.

            “Hello, Rose.”

            She froze at the smooth, soft voice then whipped around and found herself face-to-face with her tutor, her Angel, the Opera’s Phantom. He was dressed in his usual black, a long coat draped over his shoulders—it almost fell to the floor, she noticed vaguely—and his facial features had smugness written all over.

            “You caused this, didn’t you?” she accused.

            He shrugged carelessly. “Maybe. Maybe not. I warned them what would happen. It’s not my fault if they did not heed my warnings.”

            “You’re enjoying this!”

            Theta tilted his head, regarded her curiously. “Am I? Yes, I suppose so.” The grin faded; he looked completely serious now as he studied her and held out his hand. “Come with me,” he told her.

            Despite herself, Rose closed her hand around his, their fingers intertwining.

            Then, she didn’t know how, they were outside her room, passing through the mirror, inside the secret stone passageway. She still couldn’t see very well in the darkness, but her guide’s cool hand encircling her wrist helped her to relax a little. Occasionally he would hum a few bars of a song, and the sound of his compelling voice would assuage her lingering fears, would bring her even further under his thrall.

            “. . . Sing once again with me our strange duet. My power over you grows stronger yet. . . .”

            Oh, that was just rubbing it in.

            Suddenly he covered her mouth with his hand; she gagged, accidentally inhaled the smell of death that clung to him.

            _What am I doing_? That was her last coherent thought before she fainted.

            Her eyes fluttered open to make out a large white shape in the dark—again. The shape snorted and stamped a hoof.

            “Arthur? . . .” Rose murmured drowsily. Her eyes closed, her head lolled back as arms picked her up, and she smiled. “I used to sneak you sugar.”

            The stallion nickered and walked forward, following Theta without a lead. Rose, in her half-conscious and altered state, thought she sensed red shapes flickering beyond her closed eyelids, fiendish figures brandishing pitchforks. She slumped forward in the saddle, her cheek resting against Arthur’s light-gray mane and her arms around his neck.

            As always on these journeys, time ceased to have meaning. Cold hands then gripped her waist, slid her from Arthur’s back and laid her down in a gently rocking boat. Mist kissed her face, dusted her hair and eyelashes, and again there was a soft blue glow all around her . . .

            Theta started to step into the boat with Rose but stopped when he felt large teeth bite down on his sleeve. Puzzled, he looked back at Arthur. The stallion’s ears were pinned back against his skull, and his tail swished at his flanks.

            “What?”

            Whickering, and with a blast of air through his nostrils, Arthur shook his head briskly from side to side and stamped his left hind hoof.

            “I’m not planning on hurting her.”

            One ear swept forward, and his gray forelock hung over his left eye. If horses could look disbelieving, Theta would swear Arthur did.

            “Let go of my sleeve.”

            Arthur, with a snort, did as ordered.

            “Now would you quit following me? I’m not your mother.”

            Ears pinned back, Arthur lowered his head and shook his whole body. Then, with one last look at Theta, he turned around and trotted away.

            _Bloody horses_ , Theta thought irritably before turning back to his precious girl, his protégée. Soon, they were across the water and at the shore of his house on the lake. Picking up the unconscious Rose in his arms, he carried her into her own little room and laid her down on the bed. His eyes swept over her in one lingering look; then he turned and left the room.

            He had work to do.

            Rose would easily find him when she woke.               

* * *

The sound of music wound through her dreams, finally roused Rose from her sleep. She sat up in bed and looked around. As her gaze landed on a plate loaded with food on the small table, her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d yet to eat dinner.

            “Go ahead. Eat.”

            Rose jumped, turned to see Theta standing in the doorway of her little room.

            “It’s not poisoned, you know,” he said with a small smile. To prove his point, he plucked a grape from the plate and popped it into his mouth. She watched warily as he chewed and swallowed; when he seemed perfectly fine—he wasn’t doubling over in pain or anything—Rose reluctantly pulled the plate close and took a bite of the little meal. Then, as if realizing just how hungry she was, she ate with more enthusiasm. In a matter of minutes the plate was empty.

            When she glanced back at the doorway, Theta was gone.

            _Typical_ , Rose thought with a huff. Then, cautiously, she walked to the empty doorway and peered out into the Phantom’s lair.

            _He_ was nowhere to be seen, naturally. Firelight from the many candles flickered on the walls, cast deep shadows. She could hear the water from the lake lapping gently at the shore, sensed the main room of his “house” was just down the short hallway.

            Did she dare go look? The previous time she’d been here, he had returned her to the surface world after a few short hours and she had been either in a trance or unconscious for most of that time.

            How long had she been out? What time was it? There was no way of telling until he returned . . . And, since he was out, surely it wouldn’t hurt if she looked around . . .

            Her feet were moving down the corridor and out into the main room before she realized she was moving

            The first time she’d been down here she’d been too much under his spell to look around, though she _had_ noticed the organ, candles, and the mannequin that resembled her. Now that her mind was clear, she could see a little alcove set in one of the walls—an alcove filled with pictures, drawings of her and dedicated to her; an alcove with little figurines made to resemble her, her captor, Jack, and others at the Opera. How had she not noticed it before?

            Then she noticed the note, folded up, addressed to her in red ink. Shaken, forcing her hands not to tremble, Rose picked up the paper, unfolded it, and read:

            _My precious Rose, you need not have any concern as to your fate. You have no better nor respectful friend in the world than myself; I don’t want to do anything that would hurt you, flower. You are alone, at present, in this house which is yours. Don’t go wandering off; I’ll know it if you do, and I really wouldn’t want anything happening to you. I’ve gone out shopping to fetch you all the things you will need and plan to be back shortly. See you soon—or later. After all, time is rather relative, isn’t it?_

            Rose swallowed hard and dropped the note. She knew, with sudden clarity, that she’d fallen willingly into the hands of a madman. How could she have been so stupid?

            She knew the answer to that one: Her father had promised to send her the Angel of Music, and she had believed her tutor when he claimed to be that very Angel.

            Suddenly sick with horror, she retreated and hurried to her little room. The door swung and clicked shut behind her. After a frantic search for escape routes, she realized with dread that there were none.

            She had vanished when everyone else was panicking. No one knew she was gone. There would not be anyone coming for her.

            Rose choked out a sound that was half-laugh half-sob.

            That was the state of mind in which Theta found her some time later.

* * *

Theta was making his way back to his underground house through one of his usual passageways, his arms loaded with bags and parcels full of food and clothes for Rose, when he heard another voice, one he knew instantly, come from a little dead end to the right, just next to him.

            “Hello, sweetie.”

            He stopped, sighed through his nose. “Go away, River.”

            “You know I won’t.”

            “How did you even get in here? You know better than to try and enter my territory without my permission. I could easily have killed you.”

            “Like you did with Zwölf? You promised there wouldn’t be any more murders!”

            He raised his left eyebrow. “Have I really committed murders?” he asked, putting on his most innocent air.

            River shot back, “Have you forgotten the hours at the Citadel?”

            “Yes,” he replied in a sadder tone, his face shadowed. “I prefer to forget them. Oh, but I used to make the Rani laugh!”

            “That’s all in the past,” River reminded him sharply, “but this is the present . . . and I’m responsible for you. If I wanted, there would have been nothing left of you. I saved your life, Theta!”

            He said nothing, just gazed at her coolly. “Is that all?”

            “Theta . . . The chandelier. . . .”

            “What about it?”

            “Don’t play games with me,” River snapped. “You know what I mean.”

            “Oh, that.” He grinned. “ _It wasn’t me_! The chandelier was old and worn down.” He laughed, the sound harsh and maniacal; and River found herself taking a step back before recovering. “Very old and worn, River. It fell on its own.” All at once the grin was gone and his expression stoic. “Don’t come around here again. Don’t ever try to enter my house—I’m not always there—and I would rather hate having to dedicate my Requiem Mass to you.”

            Before River could think of a reply, he walked away into his self-imposed prison. He didn’t look back.

            River, not wanting to push her luck, decided to come back later.

* * *

He tapped three times on the door to Rose’s room before entering. She was sitting at the desk but looked up and over at him as he began unloading his burden on the bed.

            “What are—?”

            “They’re for you,” he informed her, glancing over briefly before returning his attention to unpacking.

            Despite herself, Rose joined him and looked over his shoulder, curious to see what he’d bought for her. There was some food—various fruits and bread and the like, which remained in their boxes—but his purchases for the most part were dresses: some for everyday wear but others were more elegant, more expensive by the look of them. And they all appeared to be in her size.

            She didn’t want to think about how he knew just the size to buy for her.

            “Why?”

            “You’ll need clothes, won’t you?” Though he sounded matter-of-fact, the unmasked side of his face wore a slightly puzzled expression, as if he was confused as to her reasoning for asking such an obvious question. “Besides, these are much nicer than anything you could afford, and you know it.”

            Rose bridled, started to snap back that she didn’t need his charity. Then she remembered where she was, the fact no one knew she was here, and that it would not be wise to irritate him. And the dresses _were_ rather beautiful, as well as outside her price range—as Theta had been so kind to mention. So she held her tongue, forced a smile, and said, “Thank you. How did you manage to pay for all this?”

            “Oh, I have my ways,” he answered mysteriously.

            _I’m sure you do_ , Rose thought. “How long do you think you can get away with this?” she asked suddenly, angrily, once again speaking with no filter.

            “Get away with what?” His tone was causal, almost amused. He stopped unpacking, straightened, and looked straight at her.

            “Kidnapping me, holding me down here, causing accidents, murdering people, blackmailing the managers . . .” Okay, that last one was a lucky guess. And his expression and body language gave nothing away. “I’ll . . . I’ll go to the police.”

            He regarded her with mild amusement. “Is that supposed to sound threatening?”

            “Sort of, yeah. Did it work?”

            “No. Besides, how would you get to the police when you’re down here with me and you don’t even know the way out?”

            Her golden-brown eyes narrowed. “Then show me.”

            “Yeah, right. Like that’s going to happen.”

            _What is with that mask?_ Rose wondered suddenly. Eyes no longer narrowed, she flashed him her best smile, one with a hint of tongue between her teeth. “Would you take off your mask for me, then? If you’re an honest man”—she slid her hands up his arms, his shoulders; caressed his neck, his unmasked cheek with one hand while the other tangled in his messy chestnut-brown hair—“you would let me see your face.”

            He’d leaned into her touch, his eyes halfway closed, but at her last words his eyes snapped open and he’d wrenched himself free of her. “You will never see Theta’s face.” Then, taking in her appearance for the first time, he frowned. “You’re not fully dressed, and it’s just past noon.”

            “I—”

            He waved aside her protest. “Get dressed. I’ll have lunch ready for you when you are finished. You have thirty minutes.” As he spoke, he set her watch.

            He vanished before she could say anything else, leaving Rose staring after him in bewilderment. She wasn’t sure if she would ever figure him out . . .or her feelings for him and Jack. Maybe it was better that way.

            Then anger took over and she slammed the door behind him before retreating to the bathroom. When she came out again, feeling somewhat refreshed, Rose made her way to the dining room. She stopped in the doorway and stared, stunned at the rather modest spread laid out on the table.

            Theta noticed her standing there in the doorway. Though he had been seated, he Rose and pulled out a chair for her. “Come and sit. Eat however much you like.”

            After a moment’s hesitation, Rose walked over and sat in the chair he’d reserved for her. “Why go through all this?” she asked him, wondering what motive he could possibly have for teaching her how to sing, for abducting her and holding her here in his underground domain . . .

            “Because I love you,” he responded, taking his own seat and reaching for a chicken wing.

            Out of all possible answers, somehow Rose had not prepared herself for that one. “What,” she said flatly, shocked.

            “Oh, yes. I won’t tell you so, though, except for when you allow me.” While Rose struggled to make any sense out of that he continued, “The rest of the time will be devoted to music.” His hands were turning over the chicken wing, as if to keep themselves occupied, but he did not eat it.

            “‘The rest of the time’? What do you mean, ‘the rest of the time’?”

            “Five days,” he said decisively.

_"Five days?!”_

            “Yes, that’s what I said,” he responded mildly.

            She managed to swallow past the sudden lump in her throat. “And after those five days?”

            “You’ll be free, Rose. You’ll have learned not to see me by then.” (That struck her as odd, but she said nothing.) “Are you going to eat?” Theta asked suddenly.

            It was then that she remembered there was food on the table, and her stomach growled in agreement. Rose took the other chicken wing, a couple of prawns, a slice of bread, and some sort of fruit she didn’t recognize. While she started on her wing, Theta took her glass and filled it.

            “What is this?” she asked him, taking a sip.

            “Hypervodka.”

            Rose accidentally swallowed; the liquor burned going down her throat. Suppressing a coughing fit—a natural reflex—she set the drink down and reached for her bread. “Where is it from?”

            “I had it imported from Arcadia.”

            Rose searched her memory for a town named Arcadia but came up blank. “And where’s that, then?”

            “It’s one of the largest Gallifreyan cities.”

            “Is that where you’re from? Gallifrey?”

            He averted his gaze, suddenly intensely focused on a loose button in his collar. His fingers worked feverishly at it for a few seconds. “I have no country. I even took the name Theta by accident: it was a nickname when I was at school—one I’m not fond of, but it stuck.”

            He said nothing more after that. Rose, even as she ate, couldn’t help noticing that his own plate and glass were untouched. The wing he’d picked up earlier lay abandoned. Though when Rose sometimes looked up from her own food, she could swear there was less meat on the chicken wing. Another time, there was bone . . . and then nothing.

            How did he do it? She could swear she hadn’t seen him take one bite.

            After lunch, Theta rose and offered her his hand. “Come on,” he said. “Let me show you around my flat.”

            Rose reached for his hand then snatched her own back as her fingertips touched his. His hands were cold, bony (yet strangely elegant), and she remembered that they smelled like death.  

            “Oh, sorry!” The visible side of his face suddenly seemed flustered, his brown eyes almost apologetic.

            Almost.

            When Rose stood, instead of taking her hand he placed one on her lower back. Guiding her over to a door she hadn’t noticed before, he opened it. “This is my room, if you’d like to see it.”

            Something about his suddenly shy manner gave her confidence, and Rose walked through the door into his bedroom.           

            The floor was made of a dark wood; the walls were hung with black. Instead of the white trimming and lining that usually set off funeral upholstery, there was an enormous grand staff with the notes of the _Dies Iroe_ repeated endlessly. In the middle of the room hung a dark red canopy, and beneath it . . . beneath it lay a black coffin with midnight-blue lining.

            Rose recoiled and took a step back, fighting the urge to run. He would easily catch her before she made it very far, and then he would never allow her to leave . . .

            “Yes, that’s where I sleep,” Theta said from behind her. “One has to get used to everything in life, even to eternity.”

            “It must be lonely,” Rose murmured to herself, suddenly feeling sorry for him.

            “In the end, everyone ends up alone.”

            Rose suddenly spotted an organ keyboard along one wall and a music book covered with red notes on the desk. She stepped toward the organ, looked back over her shoulder at the Opera Phantom. When he didn’t object, she walked over to the desk to have a better look at the book. The cover read _Don Juan Triumphant._

            “Yes,” Theta said over her shoulder, joining her. She jumped: she hadn’t heard him move. “I compose sometimes. I began that work ten years ago. When it’s finished . . .” He smiled faintly. “I’ll take it with me into that coffin and never wake again.”

            “Then you’ll have to work on it as little as you can,” Rose said, forcing her voice to sound teasing.

            “Sometimes I work at it for fourteen days and nights altogether without food, sleep, or drink. Those times I live on music only, and then rest for years at a time.” His voice never changed from that clipped, matter-of-fact tone; Rose suppressed a shudder.

            She turned back and smiled at him. “Will you play me something from your _Don Juan Triumphant_?” she asked, hoping to please him.

            What little warmth there had been in his eyes froze over. “No. I’ll play you Mozart, Beethoven, anything from any opera ever written. Don’t ask me that again.”

            “Why not?”

            “My Don Juan burns, Rose. He’s fire and ice and rage; the night and the storm in the heart of the sun.” The left side of his mouth twisted into a scathing parody of a smile. “He’s no angel.”

              He held out his hand; she took it, and he led her back to the drawing room. Rose couldn’t help noticing that there were no mirrors throughout the entire flat—unless, of course, he’d hidden one away. She opened her mouth to comment, but Theta had already seated himself at the piano, his fingers arched over the keys in a position that was clearly familiar to him.

            “You see, Rose,” he said, “there is some music so terrible that it consumes all those who approach it. Fortunately, you have not reached that level of music yet. If you did, you’d lose all your pink-and-yellow coloring and no one would know you when you returned to Paris. Let’s sing something from the Opera, Rose Tyler.” Somehow he managed to make those last few words sound like an insult.

            Then he began to play, and Rose had no time to think about what he’d meant. She flung herself into the duet in _Otello_ , singing the part of Desdemona with never before displayed terror and despair. As for him, his voice conveyed his revengeful soul at ever note. Jealousy, love, hatred burst out around them in harrowing cries; and Theta’s mask made Rose think of the natural mask of the Moor of Venice, made him seem like Othello himself.

            There was silence when the song was over. He was still turned away from her and again Rose wondered why he never took off that mask. Suddenly overcome with the desire to see his face, she tore off the mask in one quick movement.

            His outraged cry startled her; she stepped back as he whirled around angrily, hand covering the now-unmasked side of his face. “Damn you!” he spat. “You stupid ape!”

            Rose, horrified, backed up against the wall and felt her legs give way. He crawled toward her, grinding his teeth and hissing incoherent curses in what sounded like another language. Rising, he leaned over her.

            “Look!” he hissed, removing his hand from his face; Rose bit back a scream. “Isn’t this what you wanted to see?”

            The right side of his face was withered and yellowed, the skin so dried and wrinkled she could see the lines of his facial muscles and the outline of the skull beneath. It seemed as if he was partially mummified already, and she _really_ didn’t want to know if the rest of him was affected in the same way.

            “Go on, then! Feast your eyes!” he cried. “Look! Now you know the face of the voice! You weren’t content with just hearing me, eh? You wanted to know what I looked like! Oh, you women are so inquisitive, aren’t you? Well, Rose, are you satisfied? I’m very good-looking, aren’t I? When a woman has seen me, as you have, she belongs to me. She loves me forever. I am a kind of Don Juan, you know.” He raised himself to his full height, hands on his hips, his dark eyes boring into her golden-brown ones. “Look at me!” he roared. _“I am Don Juan Triumphant!”_

            Rose closed her eyes, whimpered, and turned her head away. He drew her head to him, forced her to look at him as he brutally, forcefully twisted his dead fingers into her hair. “I frighten you, do I?” he hissed. “Do you think I have another mask and that this . . . this . . . my head is a mask? Well then!” he roared, “tear it off as you did the other! Come on, I insist!” Theta seized her hands, dug her fingers into the cold, dead flesh, tore at his skin with her nails.  

            “Know,” he continued, breath hot on her face, “that I’m built up of death from head to foot and that it is a corpse who loves and adores you and would never ever leave you.” (Rose shuddered, suddenly felt wet drops on her fingers, and realized they came from him.) Then he released her, anger once more clouding his eyes before it faded. That anger, however, had given way to far worse emotions: sorrow, despair. He seemed young and ancient all at once. “As long as you thought I was . . .” He trailed off, as if searching for the correct word then continued, “. . . handsome, like one of your pretty boys, you could have come back. I know you would come back . . . but now that you know what I truly look like, you would run away for good . . . But, Rose, fear can turn to love. . . . I’ll keep you here with me.” He’d dropped to his knees by now, hand covering the disfigured side of his face, and was crawling away from her. “Why did you want to see me, Rose? Why?”

            She had no answer for him and found that her heart was breaking in two. He looked so sad, so lonely and pitiful . . .

            _“You’ll learn to see, to find the man behind the monster . . .”_ he sang softly. He looked back at her. “Oh, Rose,” he breathed.

            She wordlessly handed him back his mask. He took it, stood, and when he turned back to her his deformity was hidden once more. Then he disappeared into his room.

            A short time later Rose heard the sound of the organ, and she slowly began to understand Theta’s contempt for Opera music. What she heard now was entirely different from what she’d heard up until then. His _Don Juan Triumphant_ —she had no doubt that he’d rushed to his masterpiece to forget everything that had just happened—seemed to her at first like one long, awful sob. But little by little, it expressed every emotion, every suffering of which the human race was capable. It intoxicated Rose as it drew her deeper and further in to an increasingly darker place. Without her really noticing, she entered his room.

            Theta rose as she entered, but he did not turn in her direction.

            “Theta.” The softness, huskiness of her voice took Rose by surprise. She swallowed, cleared her throat, and walked across the floor toward him. He still wouldn’t look at her as she rested a hand on his shoulder, wouldn’t stop playing. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that—taken off your mask.”

            He stiffened beneath her touch, then scoffed. “You think?” he said sarcastically.

            “Not as much as I should, apparently.”

            That earned her a small smile, though she couldn’t see it. “That’s rather obvious,” he agreed.”

            “Hey!”

            “What? You walked right into that one. Now, is there anything else you wanted to say?”

            How he was able to have a conversation while playing, Rose couldn’t begin to guess. Her father had played only the violin, and she’d had no desire to learn any instrument save for her voice. But that was neither here nor there.

            “Show me your face without fear,” she said in her most coaxing, persuasive voice.

            He tensed even further. “No.”    

            “How can you live like this? You’re so unhappy, so alone . . .” _And completely brilliant_ , she thought. The hand on his shoulder went to the back of his neck, ran up through his thick mess of brown hair. “If I ever shiver again when I look at you, it will be because I’m thinking of your genius.” Rose wasn’t sure how she managed to get the words out, but she did. She wanted him to calm down, wanted him to . . . What? Become her Angel again? She didn’t know exactly what she wanted from him, she realized.

            Theta turned and faced her then, for he believed her. He fell at her feet with words of love . . . words of love in his dead mouth. . . .

            The music had ceased . . .

            And as he kissed the hem of her dress, he failed to see that Rose had closed her eyes.


End file.
